i'll be your atlas (and carry us home)
by Pachamama9
Summary: Ron's back seemed to split from the pain; he'd been carrying Harry for so long, but he couldn't stop now. Stopping meant Harry died, and he would not let Harry die. Not today. Ron could feel hot blood trickle from Harry's wounds down his neck. "Hold on, Harry," said Ron, through gritted teeth. "We're gonna be okay."
1. Let Me Bear The Weight Of The World

_A/N: Ron and Harry go on an Auror mission together, but it everything seems to go wrong. I can't spoil!_

 _Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and all of these fun characters._

* * *

Right about now, Ron was regretting every life decision he'd ever made. Why did he choose to be an Auror again? To leave his brilliant wife, Hermione, so that he could travel all the way to Uganda and fight these psychopaths?

As he carried his best friend on his shoulders, Ron felt as though he was Atlas, the overwhelming weight of the sky crushing him, instead of Ron Weasley, a mediocre Auror, lugging his best friend out of danger and into safety. The forest that surrounded them felt like an overheated cage instead of the warm embrace of Mother Nature, for the heat, thick with blood and the stench of dead bodies, pressed against them so they felt like they were wading through sewage instead of air. The mixture of his blood and sweat made his clothing cling to him like wet paper, and Ron licked his chapped lips, grunting with the effort as he started up an incline in the forest floor.

A dark purple curse whistled past his head, and Ron rolled Harry off his back to fire back at the wizard with a quick Stunning Spell. Before Harry hit the ground, Ron shot a levitation charm at him so that he would remain floating in the air. It would make it a lot easier to pick Harry up once they started running again. Unfortunately, Ron's spell missed, so he tried again, this time with a Body-Bind curse that hit the wizard's leg and sent him rolling through the dirt.

Although his arms burned and trembled violently, Ron picked Harry up and slung him over his back as carefully as he could.

Harry moaned against him, his torso tensing against Ron's shoulders. Ron's back seemed to split from the pain; he'd been carrying Harry for so _long_ , but he couldn't stop now. Stopping meant Harry died, and he would not let Harry die. Not today. Ron could feel hot blood trickle from Harry's wounds down his neck. "Hold on, Harry," said Ron, through gritted teeth. "We're gonna be okay."

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER - 5:43 AM GMT - June 20, 2003

"She's as bad as Voldemort was," Harry explained, gesturing to his roomful of international Aurors. He had requested that all of the members of International Confederation of Wizards send their battle-ready witches and wizards into this room to stop this new threat to their world. "Possibly worse. Her name is Nasiche Mwesigye, but she goes by the name of Nguvu now, massacring all Muggles, Squibs, or Muggleborns she finds, as well as anyone who opposes her." It seemed rather odd to Ron that a man as young as Harry should be leading this emergency international meeting; he was twenty-two, not nearly as experienced as countless others in the room. However, it was Harry who had spearheaded the idea in the first place, declaring that we could not sit idly by and watch a country fall to a newer, bloodier Tom Riddle. It was the young people, in fact, who had perpetuated the plan, locating refugees and organizing meetings like this one, for the First and Second Wizarding Wars had ravaged their childhoods, turning their playgrounds into battlefields. They could never allow the same to happen to any child. "Yes, in the back?"

A Japanese witch, a recent graduate of Mahoutokoro, put her hand down and spoke directly into her wand to translate her words. " _How many deaths so far, and how many followers?_ "

Harry nodded. "Excellent question. So far, according to the professors at Uagadou School of Magic and the magical community of Uganda, they've lost over six hundred Muggles and Muggleborns to Mwesigye, and of those, around three hundred were students and their families. She has around three hundred followers at the moment, and according to my sources, they're located" —he pointed at the map at the front of the room— "four hundred miles east of the Mountains of the Moon, where Uagadou and all of their students are currently on lockdown. They're outside the city of Kakoge, organizing their forces and tearing through both Muggle and magical cities. They kill anyone who disobeys; many join her simply out of fear." He tapped at the board again. "It's our job to intercept her as soon as possible, before she reaches the school. If she gets there," he continued, removing his glasses, "she will slaughter the entire school. As they have been in constant rebellion against her and her followers, the _Ukamilifu._ There are six thousand students at Uagadou, and about five hundred or so have fled the country. Some three hundred students are missing, and at least eighty are confirmed dead."

A blonde wizard from Koldovstoretz raised his hand, speaking in Russian. " _I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but why didn't we know about this beforehand?_ "

Ron, from the other side of the room, watched his best friend wither beneath the weight of the question. Harry rubbed his eyes, put his glasses back on, and nodded at the Ugandan woman sitting at the back of the room. Everyone turned as she limped to through the center aisle.

She shook hands with Harry and then turned to face the room of battle-ready witches and wizards. She wore the colourful garb of a Uagadou professor, as she was dressed in bright yellow robes, but she looked more like victim of war than a teacher. She was missing an arm, but the wound was not delicately draped in cloth like the battle scars of many witches and wizards. Instead, the sleeves of her yellow robes stopped in an angry slash at each shoulder, exposing the entirety of her arm. On her right side, her arm had been torn from her body using some sort of dark blue magic that still sizzled and sparked at the wound. What shocked Ron most was that they could see the exposed bone and the flesh around it, all looking like something had dug its teeth into her flesh and ripped her apart. The whole wound was swallowed by a translucent bubble of a magic with a yellow sheen, protecting it from infection or further damage. The rest of her exposed skin matched: her face was missing large chunks of flesh, while her neck and chest were lined with horrific red scars.

The physical was not the only dead giveaway that she had survived a war; her eyes darted around as though there was an enemy around every corner, and she wrung her hands constantly, running her fingers over pale scars there. When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy and worn. She had no wand, as most African wizards used words and hand gestures to fuel their magic instead. So she pressed her other arm, one that was crisscrossed with frighteningly even scars, across her chest, and her throat pulsed a faded red, enabling her to translate her words into English. " _My name is Dembe Mamdani, and I am a teacher at the Uagadou School of Magic."_ She took a deep, shaky breath. " _Uagadou and the community of Uganda has been fighting N-N-Nguvu for almost six months now."_ Ron did not fail to notice how she could barely get through the horrible witch's name, as Ron had been unable to speak Voldemort's name during the Second Wizarding War. " _The international magical community has been unaware of the crisis because Nguvu cut us off from the outside world. That was her first tactic, and it prevented any of us from receiving help. She placed spell over all of Uganda that kept anyone from leaving the country or using Dream Messengers to contact anyone."_ She coughed erratically. " _We've been forced into silence for a half-year, and all the while they've been killing, torturing, mutilating, stealing, threatening…"_ Demde shivered. " _They want the purebloods to be the only ones left. They want complete control over Uagadou and Uganda, and that's what they shall have unless we stop them."_

After her speech, Harry thanked her and turned to the rest of the room. "So, to stop Mwesigye" —Ron noticed he used the woman's actual name instead of the one she adopted since she had taken power— "I need as many volunteers as possible." Immediately, every witch or wizard from Uganda or near it raised their hands, as well as most of the American ones and all of the British (as Harry had already convinced them a week prior). The other countries were reluctant to help, as it wasn't "their problem," so to speak, but he had scattered responses from individuals of Russia, China, Pakistan, Canada, and Brazil.

After explaining that "Nguvu" could attack their respective countries after taking over her own, as Hitler did in World War II, he got most of the room. "Thank you," said Harry, "for your time and for your support."

" _Uganda thanks you_ ," said Dembe Mamdani.

Harry raised his wand to conjure a clock on the wall behind him. "We leave for Kakoge in exactly one hour." His eyes trained on Ron, his best friend. "Prepare yourselves."

After the speech, Harry approached him with a nervous smile. "What do you think?" he asked. "You ready to follow me to Uganda?"

Ron chuckled. "I don't follow you anywhere, Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry laughed and brought Ron into a firm embrace. "You know, this'll be my last mission," he said, releasing Ron. "My last time in the field."

 _Last mission?_ Ron was confused by the sudden confession, so he pressed on. "What? Why?"

Harry seemed to burst in delight at the question, beaming like a little kid at Christmas. "It's Ginny! She's pregnant!"

His heart rose in his chest, pattering erratically as though a niffler was rifling through his insides for a shiny trinket. "Ginny—wow! Congratulations, Harry!"

His whole body seemed to relax when he talked about it. "It's gonna be a boy, Ron; I didn't know you could know this early with babies, because Gin's about a month along—seven weeks, actually—but those Healers told us at the last appointment! I mean, magic, right? I love magic!" Then he was hugging Ron again, untethered joy seeping from every pore. "I'm having a son, Ron, I'm gonna have a son!"

Ron hugged him back and congratulated him. "This is great, Harry, honestly. I'm so happy for you!"

Then Harry babbled on about the Muggle and magical doctors and the pictures they'd provided (something about an ultrasound, some Muggle device), but Ron's mind was far away, dazed by the announcement. Ron's little sister was going to have a baby. _Harry_ was going to have a baby. Merlin's beard, what was the world coming to?

Ron felt something stir inside of him; it tasted like pride, but beneath it, Ron knew, was something more.

Fear.

Pure, unbridled fear.

* * *

 _A/N: Okay, so hopefully you realized that we jump back twenty-four hours. I hope that wasn't too confusing for you guys. The next chapter will start six hours after this chapter, and so on until we get back to that awesome first scene we started with. Don't worry, I'll be writing the times at the top of every time change so you know when it is. Thanks for reading, everyone!_

 _Challenges used:_

 _Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #149 (color) purple_

 _If You Dare Challenge - #506 (Bodies)_

 _Your Favorite House Boot Camp - #7 (trade), Gryffindor_

 _Writing Club - Lizzy's Loft - #1 - Write about a good friend_

 _Writing Club - Sophie's Shelf - #2 (King James I) Write about someone intolerant._

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: November [1785]_

 _Fantastic Beasts - #25 (Brunei) - (era) Post-war, #20 (ghoul) - (word)moan_

 _Library - 40. A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot: Write a story that is non-linear (20 points)_


	2. Let The Sky Weep On My Shoulders

_A/N: First of all, I want to say thank you for everyone who has reviewed already. Your appreciation meant the world! Thank you!_

 _Quick warning for violence and a touch of profanity._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

SIX HOURS LATER - 11:43 AM GMT - June 20, 2003

"Ron, watch out!" bellowed Harry, and the red-haired man pulled up a Shield charm just fast enough to block a perilous curse. Beside Ron, a Ugandan wizard whipped his hands through the air to knock out a Nguvu follower, also known as a Kamilifu, a Swahili word for perfect. They saw themselves as the ones destined to perfect the magical community by purging them of Muggles, Muggleborns, and Squibs. The Ukamilifucalled them the Kutokamilika, a word meaning imperfection or incomplete, for the blood lacked the purity of magic that they honored so highly.

Victory surged in Ron's chest. The Ukamilifu were far outnumbered; they had evacuated the city of Kakoge of any civilians they encountered and were currently battling all three hundred of them with five hundred volunteers, including two dozen survivors of Nguvu's original massacre. There was no chance they could lose.

They backed the Ukamilifu into the center of the city, surrounding them from all sides. Dembe screeched at one in particular: a orange-robed woman with crazy hair and matching eyes. Ron couldn't understand Swahili, but he knew the essence of her speech, fueled by blood-red fury and ink-black grief.

Harry grabbed Ron by the shoulder. "Watch my back," he hissed. There was blood smeared across his forehead. Then he darted through the battle, dodging spells and jumping over mutilated corpses, as Ron scrambled after him.

Climbing up to the statue of Nguvu in the center of the square, Harry screeched into his wand: "Everyone, _stop_!" The Ukamilifu, exhausted and injured, raised their purple cloth-bound hands as though to surrender while Harry's conglomerate of international wizards kept their wands and hands raised in preparation for more bloodshed. "My name is Harry Potter, and I am an Auror from the federation of British witches and wizards. My acquaintances and I are here to protect the people of Uganda, and we will not stop until the people are safe. If you surrender now, we will spare your lives. If not, we will—"

And then a violent thread of blue light struck Harry (like lightning piercing a beach, morphing the sand into glass), and he toppled, scarlet blossoming across the front of his robes.

"Harry!" Ron screamed, and everything seemed to explode beneath his feet.

The Ukamilifu reinforcements all arrived at once, dozens upon dozens of purple-clothed Ugandan natives, armed with rings and bracelets that augmented their power. Nguvu herself was at the front, and soon the situation had flipped; there were hundreds more of the Ukamilifu than of Harry and his team. Within minutes, they were all dead, injured, or incapacitated.

Ron was on the ground, pinned by an immobilization spell that wrenched his arms behind his back and wrapped painfully around his throat. He lashed out at his captor, kicking his legs into the air, but the witch who promptly responded with a debilitating kick to his groin.

Now Nguvu stood atop of the statue in the middle of the square as Harry had done only moments ago. " _My fellow witches and wizards_ ," she announced, her arms spread wide in welcome. Like Dembe Mamdani had, she turned her throat red to translate from Swahili into each respective language. Her smile was like cheap icing on a cake, and suddenly Ron was violently reminded of Dolores Umbridge in the way she walked and spoke. " _There is no need for any more pure blood to be shed. If you repent your actions and give in to the power and glory of Nguvu, your new ruler, I will spare you. And if not, well, we have other uses for you. Fear not, my people, for now you are in the hands of a greater power: Nguvu."_

The Ukamilifu chanted her name in response: "Nguvu! Nguvu! _Nguvu_!"

Ron closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them again, his gaze trailing across each fallen man and woman until he located his best friend. Harry was only feet from him, his eyes blinking lethargically. His hands were pressed against his middle, interlaced as though to net the flow of blood. He was whispering something at Ron, his pale lips moving, but Ron was too far to hear.

The Swahili chant roared in his ears. "Nguvu! Nguvu! _Nguvu_!"

* * *

SIX HOURS LATER - 5:43 PM GMT - June 20, 2003

Ron learned that day how different the Ugandan killing curse was from the British one. Instead of green, detached, and painless, the Ugandan spell, punctuated by a violent twist of both wrists directed at the target, was blood-red, brutal, and agonizing. The spell itself ripped the lungs from the body, although the magic kept the life tethered to the body until the heart stopped beating.

Anyone who had been too injured to walk had been killed on the spot, left to suffocate and die in the most barbaric way in the bloodstained streets of Kakoge. The rest had been incarcerated by the binding spell that had pinned Ron to the ground in the original battle, a yellow-orange one that bound the forearms together behind the back.

They'd slaughtered all the Ugandans who were fighting, for Nguvu believed that "treason" against the Ukamilifu was a crime worthy of death. They marched each warrior to the front of the square, using the horrible killing curse to remove their lungs one by one. Dembe Mamdani had been the last to die, shaking and crying and pleading.

Those fucking bastards had left Kakoge a ghost town; although Harry and his team of Aurors and volunteers had tried to clear all civilians from the city, they had missed a few. And each one of those ordinary people were butchered for their disobedience or their lack of magic. Entire families had been slaughtered in their beds, their corpses left to rot in their homes. Ron had seen every sort of death imaginable: the quick and painless, the savage and bloody, and the long and torturous...

Merlin's fucking beard, there were so few of them left...

" _Endelea kutembea_!" snarled the Kamilifu next to him, and Ron's heart skipped a beat. Ron had heard that phrase enough in the past few hours, roared at those struggling to keep going. He pushed a little more energy into his stride, forcing himself to continue despite the sweat pouring down his spine and the aches forming in his tired legs. The Ukamilifu rode on the backs of strange, elephant-like creatures the colour of sand called inashika, slashing at anyone who tripped, fell, or "disrespected" them with black, whiplike tendrils that extended from their hands with one magic-laced word. _Keep walking_ , it meant, but Ron knew what it truly meant: _don't stop or else we'll tear your lungs from your body and watch you bleed._ The Ukamilifu had removed all of their shoes and burned them in the square, forcing them to walk every step with bruised, bloody feet. Every time someone collapsed by the side of the path and could not get back up due to exhaustion or injuries, they cut off their right foot before killing them, dousing it in a foul-smelling liquid and lighting it on fire to represent the destruction of another prisoner's life.

Harry was beside Ron, staggering weakly with every step. Nguvu, knowing that the great Harry Potter was revered in the eyes of the international magical world, made a halfhearted attempt to save him by bandaging his wounds in the hopes that she could ransom him back to the Ministry of Magic, but Ron knew it was getting worse. He knew Harry better than anyone, and he could see how his bare feet dragged against the ground, how his head swung low in defeat, and how his eyes gazed emptily at ground, glassy with pain. Everything about Harry read _death_ , not life.

Ron nudged him with his aching shoulder, shooting his whispers at the ground instead of at Harry in hopes the Ukamilifu would fail to notice their conversation. "Are you okay?"

Harry's skin was a sallow colour already, as though Death had already sunk his sharp teeth into Harry's throat and drained him of the vivacity within. At Ron's words, his eyes dropped to the blood spreading across his front, vacant and unfocused.

"You can lean on me, yeah? You gotta keep going, no matter—"

Pain sliced across his back, ripping through two layers of cloth and another two layers of skin to the blood bubbling beneath. " _Nyamaza_!" _Shut up!_ Ron took the blow in silence, merely gritting his teeth against it.

 _Fuck_ , Ron missed his wand. He felt naked without it; it was like losing a limb. Worse, actually. It was like losing his legs. He was a fish, flopping and choking and dying on land without the blissful comfort of water.

Barely aware of what had happened, Harry sagged against him, slumping against him. Ron ignored the blood now trickling down his back, the dirty cuts on his feet, and the exhaustion seeping into his bones. He had to make sure Harry stayed alive.

As long as Ron had breath left in his body, he would make sure that Harry Potter lived to see his son.

* * *

 _A/N: What do you think? Let me know!_

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: November [1528]_

 _Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Cha_ _llenge - #392. (restriction) Can't call Muggle-Born, Muggle-Borns or Mudblood you have you to come up with a new name to call those whose parents don't have magic_

 _If You Dare Challenge - #10 (Ghost towns)_

 _Your Favorite House Boot Camp - #43 (power), Gryffindor_

 _The Golden Snitch - Ollivander's Wand Shop - Sybill Trelawney - 8 inch - Write about a Gryffindor character._

 _The Golden Snitch - Be grateful for your friends - Friendship - #13 (character) Harry Potter_

 _Hogwarts - Library - #29 Cooking the Muggle Way by Mordicus Egg - Write a chapter in the past tense - 10 pts_

 _Hogwarts - Fantastic Beasts - #24 (Kenya), #19 (thestral) death_


	3. Let The Earth Quake Under My Feet

_A/N: Next chapter. Set six hours later, at around eleven pm._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

SIX HOURS LATER - 11:43 PM GMT - June 20, 2003

Frankly, Ron didn't understand how Harry was still standing. He felt like he was inside of the sun, for the heat was so powerful it seemed to overtake every other sense. After a full day walking through blistering heat with only short breaks for water, wounded and weary, Harry should have passed out a long time ago. But Aurors were trained, Ron knew, much like the Muggle Marines. Being at the height of physical fitness was not only a priority, but a necessity.

Once they reached the next major village, the _Ukamilifu_ stopped to rest and divided the prisoners of the Battle of Kakoge into small groups, each guarded by a separate _Kamilifu_ in a small hut. Their guard gave them a jug of water and a hunk of burned meat to share between the prisoners, which they immediately devoured.

There were seven of them in the hut; the first was the talkative young witch from Makoutoro, who spoke a little French and could communicate decently with the Beauxbatons wizard, a tall, bearded black man with eyes like a desert storm. The third was a tiny, Brazilian witch with a missing hand and severe wounds who looked worse than Harry. She had been too weak to even eat anything, and she was bleeding profusely from the ears, which couldn't have been a good sign. The American wizard, a man (no, he was really a _boy_ ) straight out of Ilvermorny chatted frantically in Spanish to the Brazilian woman as if he could heal her wounds with his words. His name was Antonio, Ron remembered. _Antonio_. Staring at their interaction, Ron realized with a violent gush of nostalgia that this was probably Antonio's first battle, as well as his first brush with Death. The final prisoner was a middle-aged, olive-skinned woman in a torn white hijab. Ron knew she was from Pakistan, and that she spoke some English.

As Ron tended to Harry's wound, unwinding the bandages to diagnose its severity, he heard the Brazilian witch mumbling back to the Ilvermorny boy in slurred Portuguese. Ron eased Harry into a reclined position, resting his friend's head in his lap. He unwound the last of the bandages; the wounds were far worse than he imagined. The curse was dark Ugandan magic, coloured a rich blue that seeped into each gash and drained into the adjacent flesh. The cuts were deep, starting from the spot where they had hit him during the battle and spreading outwards like splintering glass. The more time passed, the worse the wounds became.

Ron removed the vial of disinfectant potion from his hip (which, luckily, the _Ukamilifu_ had not spotted) pouring it over the wound. Harry's eyes went wide as the potion met his skin; he clutched Ron's wrist. "Ron…"

"It's okay, Harry," Ron promised. His voice had dried to a raspy croak. "You're gonna be fine."

At the same time, Antonio let on an anguished whimper. "Muca?" he called out; Ron knew from his voice that the Brazilian woman was dead, but he kept his eyes on his friend. "Muca! _Muca!_ " His voice splintered, as though Muca's death was an axe and he was a cherry tree. Ron couldn't look away; he watched as Antonio clutched the woman to his chest, grasping her lifeless limbs. "Muca, no, _no_ , please…" Her wild, curly hair was stained with blood...

Harry's grip loosened, but still he kept his hold on Ron's arm as though it would maintain his link to life. The Pakistani woman slipped to Ron's side to help her fix Harry's middle. "I am a trained Healer," she explained, her accent thick in her mouth. "I can help." She had been crouching by Muca and Antonio for the past few minutes, unable to save the dying witch. From a thin leather pouch strapped around her hips, she retrieved a curved needle and thread. Holding both, she instructed Ron to hold Harry still as she worked.

Ron knew what those were: _stitches_. It was a traditional Muggle form of healing that was sometimes implemented into magical hospitals. The woman, who introduced herself as Ismat, had been a field Healer for thirty years, learning to utilize both magical and Muggle means to save lives during times of need. Each stitch helped to close Harry's wounds and pull him away from Death's sticky fingers.

Antonio was still in shock, shivering through the oppressive heat. "M-Muca, _despiertate_. C'mon, _por favor,_ you'll be fine." He was holding her limp body to him, shaking her furiously. "Wake up, wake up! You're okay! _Wa-wake up!_ "

Ron couldn't watch any more. He helped Harry take a few more sips of water and then slumped against the wall of the hut. _Fuck_ , he thought. _How are we going to get out of this one?_

* * *

SIX HOURS LATER - 5:43 AM GMT - June 21, 2003

There were a hundred prisoners left now. A few had tried to escape during the night, so they gathered all of the prisoners into the night and executed those belonging to the failed rebellion. Two of them were Aurors, a woman and man that Ron knew well: Catherine and Elliot. They'd been married for twenty-six years and Aurors for thirty. Elliot died first, a gruesome spectacle where he'd clawed at his throat until his skin was caked beneath his fingernails. Catherine had exploded with a wandless magical outburst of grief and fury afterwards, killing three of the Ukamilifu before they murdered her, too.

Ron didn't want to think about it.

They started walking again in the morning. There were six or seven lashes in Ron's back from times he had been too slow. Harry was feverish now, clammy to the touch and mumbling incoherently. Of the original seven prisoners, there were only four left: Ron, Harry, Ismat, and Antonio.

The Japanese woman and the French man had stolen one of the Ugandan creatures as the prisoners were rounded up and tried to ride away, but several Ukamilifu had chased after them and slaughtered them like pigs. They'd strung their heads off of the back of the creature they had stolen as a reminder to the remaining prisoners. The worst part was that Ron didn't even know their names.

Antonio was silent now, trudging along beside Ron with a dazed, numb look in his eyes. He had long since given up hope of escape. Ismat walked beside him, her calming presence a mild comfort, but still the boy resembled a shell-shocked soldier. Ron was well-acquainted with the feeling: unable to close your eyes without seeing the dead, unable to walk without feeling the vibration of an imminent explosion, and unable to breathe without being fully aware of the fact that _you didn't deserve to be alive._

The warmth of Harry's shallow breathing against his side was gone, and Ron spun around to find the Boy Who Lived wheezing in the dirt, curled up on his side and clutching weakly at his bloody bandages. "Harry!"

The nearest Kamilifu had already noticed Harry's collapse, and he said the one word required to bring forth the whip: " _Kumvunja_." At the mere sound of the word on the man's lips, Ron could feel the fear wash over every inch of his body like ice-cold water, pouring into every finger and toe and buzzing beneath his skin. His voice came out strangled, as though the Kamilifu's foot was already crushing his trachea. "Har- _Harry_!"

Ron tripped over himself to get to his injured friend, putting himself between the Kamilifu and his inashika, the large creature he rode. With his arms trapped behind his back, he couldn't help Harry stand, but maybe he could hold them off until Harry got up again. "Harry, c'mon," Ron hissed, shaking with panic. He could feel the Kamilifu approaching from behind him. "C'mon, get up. You have to get up! They're gonna _kill_ you, Harry; you can make it, c'mon—Harry, _please_ —"

" _Endelea kutembea, mkundu_!" Upon hearing the angry cry, Ron flung his body over Harry's, bracing himself, and the whip sliced through the stringy tendons between his shoulder and his neck, scraping a trail of brilliant pain down his back. Harry was still struggling to get up again, his bound hands proving to be a troublesome obstacle. With the gashes on his torso worsening and dehydration setting in, Harry was the perfect picture of utter exhaustion.

The whip hit him again, even as Ron begged for them to spare Harry's life— "He'll get up, please, _please_ , just free his hands!" —but still the Kamilifu spat in his ear and screamed for him to keep walking or they'd kill him. Harry's eyes, the vivid green turned dull with pain, closed, his body falling limp against the ground.

Another strike, and another, and another… This one was followed by a furious growl of frustration. " _Unasonga_!" Ron knew that one well: _move out of the way._ It meant _make way, for it is his time to die._

It was not Harry's time to die. _It was not his time to die._ "No!"

When they reached for Harry's lifeless leg, raising one luminous hand to cut off his right foot, Ron went ballistic. His vision tinged red, and he smashed his head into his captor's skull, roaring in anger. His magic ran rampant as though he were a child throwing a tantrum, his emotions sparking until his magic exploded in a destructive eruption of raw power. He screamed, and the Kamilifu closest to him dropped like a stone, eyes rolling into the back of his head as Ron's rage multiplied. He turned to his next captor, a woman with choppy dreadlocks, and as she swung back the whiplike tendril of dark magic, he directed his magic at her, wrapping her own cursed whip around her chest until something cracked. As soon as the other prisoners saw Ron, fighting the Ukamilifu with every ounce of energy he had left, all hell broke loose.

The prisoners of the battle of Kakoge were not prisoners anymore. They were warriors.

Nguvu and the Ukamilifu had stashed all of the wands on a particularly violent inashika with green tusks, protected by a massive Kamilifu with green cloth wrapped around his arms from biceps to fingertips. Somehow that man was on the ground, now, his head split open like a watermelon to reveal its pink, mushy contents. The pouch of stolen wands burst open on the ground, and then all the prisoners fell in, scrabbling with bloody, blistered fingers for their wands.

A violent blast of purple light knocked the next Kamilifu off of his feet and launched him backwards before he could strike Ron again. Behind him stood Ismat, her wand smoking and her hijab half torn from her head. She threw another wand at him; it was dark red, unyielding, and much longer than his own but gripping it felt like he'd taken his first breath of fresh air in a century. "Run," Ismat said. The word was an order, a plea, and a prayer packed into one raspy syllable.

Needless to say, Ron picked up Harry, slung him over his shoulders, and ran for his life.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading... Next chapter coming soon._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #433 (season) summer_

 _If You Dare Challenge - #389 (Inside the sun)_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December []_

 _Your Favorite House Boot Camp - #8 (half), Gryffindor_

 _The Golden Snitch - Simpsons - #11 (Milhouse) - Write a story with a sidekick character._

 _The Golden Snitch - Friendship - #2 (scenario) a friend consoling another after a bad day_

 _The Golden Snitch - Wand Shop - Fleur Delacour - 9 inch - Gryffindor character_

 _Writing Club - Character Appreciation - #3 (trait) loyal_

 _Writing Club - Disney Challenge - Characters - #5 (Lefou) Write about a sidekick_

 _Fortnightly - #13 (action) throwing something_


	4. Let The Sea Drown Me With Its Sorrow

_A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Now, with Ron, we're back to the present moment you saw in the first chapter._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

PRESENT MOMENT

So now, as Ron stumbled through the forest, the reek of dead bodies and burning skin wafted through the air. His senses seemed to center on one particular sensation at once: the horrible whimpers escaping Harry, the overwhelming pain spiking all the way down his spine, the Swahili screams of the _Ukamilifu_ , the lashes leaking warmth down his back, the magic spattering the forest and staining the trees…

Mother Nature had no mercy in her heart for the red-haired boy in hand-me-down robes

If he closed his eyes and sunk into the sweet depths of his mind, he could feel Hermione's hand pressing against his, interlacing their fingers, one by one.

"Come home to me, love," she would say, and she'd brush his messy red hair away from his face so she could look him in the eye. "I know you've got that same hero complex as Harry, but I don't care about that." She would tell him to sit down and take a deep breath. "I believe in you, Ronald Weasley." She wouldn't kiss him; she strongly believed that reinforcing emotional support with physical attraction was harmful to long-term romantic relationships. Instead, she would hold him, sliding her arms around him. He would press his face into that sweet place between her neck and her shoulder, sinking into her. She always smelled wonderful, like strawberries and home, and he—

—took a deep breath, but all he inhaled was smoke and distress. Hearing a bloodcurdling scream, he ran faster; his bare feet split open on the rocks and twigs on the ground. Ron didn't know if it even qualified as running anymore, for his legs acted of their own accord, hobbling hysterically away from his attackers.

Harry's body was hot against his shoulders, the weight of his friend's life growing heavier with every step. Ron was by no means a superhero; at some point, he had to break. His strong, even breathing mutated into shallow wheezes; his seemingly limitless strength drained until he had to force himself to put his feet forward, one in front of the other. The agony of carrying Harry was overwhelming, painful tremors tearing down his back and ripping through his muscles. The pain was a rusty executioner's axe; it slashed him over and over again, unable to kill him in one stroke. His back was Pompeii, quaking and shuddering involuntarily, but still he ran. The pain would split him in half, but he had no other choice.

 _One more step_ , he thought. _One more step, and he'll be safe_.

Ron didn't know how much time had passed, but finally they escaped the _Ukamilifu_ and stumbled upon an abandoned Muggle house in the forest. It looked like it had been on fire, the walls and roof coated in ash and streaked with burns, but it was still standing. The immediate stench of corpses made him want to retch upon entering, but Ron didn't care. This was shelter. This was safety. Ron slid Harry off of his shoulders, depositing the man on the carpet. Then Ron dropped to his knees, fatigue washing over him, and sprawled on the floor next to Harry. He just wanted to sleep. Or cry. Maybe both.

But then Harry started to moan in pain, stirring in his discomfort, so Ron gave himself five seconds of self-pity and then rose again to tend to his friend. Harry Potter was not going to die today. Not on his watch.

Ron struggled to his feet and crouched to drag Harry towards the wall; his friend was still lifeless in his grasp, barely able to respond. Ron sat against the wall, able to replenish some of his strength by leaning against it, and he propped Harry up into a sitting position so that he could unwind the bandages. Most of the bandages were tattered remains of the upper half of Harry's Auror uniform, torn into strips to use as clean bandages. "Harry, can you sit up?" But Harry couldn't hear him, let alone obey his commands. Drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, Harry was barely lucid.

Since Ron was all alone again, he envisioned his wife beside him, instructing his actions. "He can't stay like this!" Hermione would say, utterly outraged. Her hair would be wild, but she'd pull it back to keep it out of her eyes. "Honestly, Ron, didn't you ever pay attention during our Healing unit of Defense Against the Dark Arts? It was half of our grade!" She would place his hands over hers, guiding him to unwrap each strip of cloth. "Inflammation," she would remind him, examining the wound, "is a primary sign of infection."

Ron peeled away the final bandage to find Harry's wounds pink and swollen, Ismat's stitches straining to hold each gash closed. Ron swore. Loudly. And repetitively. There was only a little left of the disinfectant potion, but Ron used the rest on Harry, knowing it was vital to his survival.

Harry was not going to die. Harry was _not_ going to die.

Ron hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. He'd spent all night in the prisoners' hut trying to keep Harry from dying, talking to him, tending to him, and keeping him awake (because Ron wasn't sure if Harry fell asleep if he would ever wake back up again).

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours of battle preparation, vicious combat, debilitating incarceration, and devastating loss.

Ron just wanted to go home.

But instead, he rummaged through the belongings of the Muggle owners, locating a damaged first aid kit. The entire kitchen was blackened and crumbling, destroyed by the fire that had wrecked the house, so all of the food was gone. However, the water still worked in a couple of the faucets, so Ron pulled a vase from one of the untouched rooms and filled it with sweet water, gulping it down frantically. He found some towels in a burned closet and hurried back to Harry, stripping him of his remaining clothing and drenching the towels in water before draping them over his feverish friend. He made new bandages using fresh strips of clothing stolen from a dead couple's bedroom. He tried several healing spells to fix both his and Harry's injuries, but most of them had been caused by unique Ugandan dark magic, so none of the British healing spells he tried worked.

The stolen wand he was using grew hot in his hand as he worked, disobedient and obstinate. Ron hissed in pain; the wand was now too hot to hold, burning through the skin of his palm, but he had to keep going. He was levitating Harry now, bandaging him with gentle care, and once he finally finished, the wand had left a painful, swollen welt in his hand.

Finally, once Harry was asleep on the carpet, a pillow beneath his head, Ron relaxed, slumping against the wall. There was a cool cloth resting on Harry's forehead and fresh bandages around his wounds; there was nothing more he could do except hope.

Now, he focused on getting the hell out of this place. He couldn't Apparate; he knew that Apparating with Harry in this state would easily kill him. And even Apparating alone… He considered leaving Harry behind to contact the Ministry, but in his present state—exhausted and injured—he would never make it all the way to London. Most likely, he would Splinch himself or pass out halfway through the journey; he could even die trying to go that far in his condition. He remembered learning how to send messages through his Patronus, but how far could his Patronus go? Certainly not all the way to London from the middle of Uganda. But it was the only possibility he had.

Ron took a deep breath, winced, and thought of his happiest memory.

 _Her hair was up in a twisted bun, several curls falling free. Her long, milky white dress accented the smooth curve of her waist, sparkles winding around the torso to meet her toes at the bottom of the skirt. She held a bouquet of white and periwinkle flowers in her hands, and Ron watched until her eyes fell on him._

 _She grinned excitedly as soon as she saw him; when she did, Ron could tell that she was just as nervous as he was. Sure, they had a few rehearsals, but the real wedding was not the same. Not at all._

 _Her fingers trembled. Ron pried her tense fingers away from the bouquet and handed it to one of the bridesmaids. He took her hands in his and held them until they began to relax, steadying. "You okay?" he whispered._

 _Her whole face lit up in a beautiful smile. "Better than okay, you moron. I've never been happier."_

 _Ron just couldn't help it; he snuck a quick kiss on her cheek, even as she squealed in protest. "We've gotta wait, Ron!" He grinned wickedly and kissed her again; her laugh made him feel like flying._

 _Harry, the best man, cleared his throat from beside him._

 _Ron flushed with embarrassment, and Hermione's small fingers found his large ones. She raised their interlaced fingers and kissed them. "We're ready," she said, her eyes tracing Ron's._

 _He slipped his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Definitely."_

"Expecto Patronum!" The dazzling Jack Russell terrier burst from the end of his wand, tail wagging wildly, sinking into a playful pose before him. Focusing impossibly hard, Ron ordered, "Find Her-Hermione." She was one of the only people that brought him enough happiness for his Patronus to be fueled for the entire ten thousand kilometer journey. "Tell her…" The silver dog cocked its head at him, its stubby tail slapping against the carpet. Knowing that 'less was more' when it came to Patronus communication, he shortened his message. "Uganda. Escaped Nguvu. Forest…" He swallowed hard. "Harry is dying. Send help."

The terrier nodded once and bounded out of the house excitedly. So Ron collapsed on the blood-spotted carpet next to Harry, watching his best friend's chest move up and down. He prayed it would keep doing that.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter coming within the next couple days._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Are You Crazy - #57 (No Mercy)_

 _If You Dare - #866 (All night)_

 _Your Favorite House - #22 (milky), Gryffindor_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1680]_


	5. Let Today Be The Day That I Bleed

_A/N: Sorry for the long delay. Here's the update you've been waiting for._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

Something brushed against his arm, and Ron jerked awake, whipping around and stabbing his wand into open air. But it was only Harry, moving his arm weakly to touch Ron's. "Ron…" he croaked. "Where…"

Ron dropped his wand. His back burned horribly, hot blood leaking as the muscles there flexed. "Some house in the forest. We got away, Harry, don't worry. They can't find us." He explained further (because he didn't know how much his friend remembered from his fever-induced stupor), talking about Ismat and the mutiny in more detail.

Harry seemed to relax at that, curling his arm around his wounded stomach. Ron sat up, ignoring how he felt like he'd been trampled by a hippogriff. "Are you in pain? Does your stomach hurt more? Do you feel…"

"No…" Harry responded. "I'm...tired. Everything...hurts." Then Ron examined him, _truly_ examined him, and recognized with intense horror the total damage the spell had done to him. The wounds were worse now, stretching up and down past the previous bandages from heart to hips. They crawled across his stomach to touch each side of his back, pulsating with feeble effort. The terrible blue of the spell went farther than that, however, spreading through the veins in his body to reach every inch of him, fading and reappearing with every heartbeat. It had travelled over his face, his arms, his legs; there was no part of Harry untouched by the curse. Blue lines crisscrossed and overlapped like a road map on every bit of Harry's exposed skin.

Ron grew suddenly, appallingly ill at the sight of Harry. This entire time, he had clung to this stupid, frail hope that Harry would survive to see his son, but now…

 _Fuck._

Ron scrambled through the first aid kit, accidentally stabbing his finger on a needle as he did. "D-don't worry, Harry. You're going to be fine." And just as he did so, the door burst open, splintering at the edges; three Ukamilifu stood behind it, their hands coated in dark magic.

Ron leapt in front of Harry, raising his wand. "Stupefy!" he cried, and the first one fell, but the last two remained, rapidly firing at him with energy he did not currently possess.

He tried to hold them off, casting shield charms and other defensive spells so that he could fight both of them at once, but it was not enough. Soon, his back was pressed against the floor, the cuts there screaming in protest, and the two attackers were above him, taunting him in foreign words he did not understand.

Something hard and heavy slammed down onto Ron's right arm, and he screamed so loudly surely all of the forest could hear. He thrashed with all his might against them, but the woman was forcing him to the ground with a boiling hot spell to prevent him from moving. The stolen wand tumbled from his fingers, rolling across the floor, and his arm was on fire, the bones crushed beneath the weight of the Kamilifu's spell. His arm… They were shouting at him, partially in Swahili and partially in English, but Ron couldn't hear them. All he could hear was the grinding of his broken bones beneath the dark magic of the Kamilifu _._

Then the man swung his hands forward again, smashing the force of his magic into his hand instead. He crushed Ron's bones to dust, slamming it down over and over and over… The immediate pain, crashing over Ron and pulling him apart, was so great that Ron blacked out; somewhere, drowning in the back of his mind, he remembered a similar event. One of the prisoners from the first day had kept his wand stashed away and carefully hidden so the Ukamilifu would not find it. Sometime while they were walking, the wizard fired a spell at his captor and tried to run. They had caught him in minutes, for he was far outnumbered. Nguvu herself had administered his punishment, crushing his wand arm over and over again with a pitch-black curse until there was nothing but flattened skin and bone. It was a sick eye-for-an-eye punishment for using Westernized magic, or magic utilizing a wand, against the Ukamilifu.

Submerged in a nightmarish blend of agony and anger, Ron found himself shoved back into the horror of reality. He roared, but his body just wouldn't move. He braced himself for another blow (if he was hit again, surely the pain would engulf him and swallow him whole) but instead he saw a jet of scarlet light slam into both the man and the woman, releasing him from the immobilization spell. Ron groaned, unable to control the tears from coming. He rolled onto his side, using his good arm to grab onto the couch and haul himself up.

Harry stood before him, holding Ron's stolen wand; he was trembling, his wand arm extended as though the Ukamilifu were still an active threat. His other arm was limp at his side, and the bandages wrapped around his naked torso were wet now, sticky with blood. The red seeped all the way through his bandages, spreading across his entire front like poppy flowers blooming over a blanket of fresh snow.

"Harry—" Ron began, and Harry fell, the wand slipping from between his thin fingers. Ron rushed forth, cradling his broken arm closely against his chest and grabbing Harry with his other one, lowering him to the ground. With his shattered arm, Ron was practically useless, but he attempted nonetheless, fumbling with the stolen wand to levitate the needle and thread. "I think your stitches popped, that's all; I can fix it, don't worry—" Once had the stitching supplies, he jerked his wand with his left hand (Merlin, he _hated_ using his left hand) at the closet on the opposite side of the house. "I just need—Accio towel! Accio towel!" The wand pulsed with heat, ignoring his frenzied demands. " _Accio fucking towel!_ "

Harry, barely hanging on to consciousness, touched his frail fingers to Ron's wrist. "Stop," he wheezed. "It's...okay. I know…"

"Okay? _Okay?"_ The towel finally flew from the closet, and Ron pressed it against the wound over the soaked bandages. "You're bleeding out, Harry! Don't tell me you're okay!"

Harry's grip tightened. "Gonna...die. I...know." His chest rattled as he took a breath. "Tell...Ginny. I love...her. And my...son. I—"

"No!" Ron had never been so horrified in his whole life. "You think you can just let go? No!" Ron shifted Harry so that he was sitting behind him, using all of his left arm's strength to hold Harry to him and press the towel against his wounds. He prayed it would be enough." I'm not letting you die, not like this. Never." He gripped the wand as tight as he could. "You're gonna see your son, Harry. I promise. I don't care how bad it looks. You're gonna make it, okay? You're gonna be fine." A thousand scenarios raced through Ron's brain. Would it be more dangerous to release the pressure and stitch him up, or keep him from bleeding without fixing the wounds? Oh, _fuck_ , he should've paid more attention during that _fucking_ Healing unit.

A faint smile danced over Harry's lips. "Wanna...name him. My...boy. James...or...Sirius. Tell...her…"

"I won't have to tell her," insisted Ron, his voice wavering, "because you're gonna be there yourself, okay? You're gonna see Ginny give birth, and it'll be disgusting and wonderful and everything you've ever wanted, got it?"

Harry's eyes fluttered like he was a little kid who stayed up too late past his bedtime. His blinks were lethargic and late, too slow for someone who was twenty-two years old. He was _too fucking young_ —

"Don't…worry..." slurred Harry. The oddly delirious smile on Harry's face made Ron want to punch him. He was starting to sound like that Brazilian witch, Muca, before she died, and it was scaring Ron more than anything. "I...ready...to...die…" He coughed, and blood dribbled down his chin. "Long...time…"

Ron was infuriated. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? Meeting Voldy in the forest? I know you, Harry, and you were as ready to die then as you were when you were eleven! You were bloody _petrified_ to go out there! You're not ready to die! You don't _get_ to be ready to die, you understand? It's not your time yet! It's _not your time!_ "

Most of Harry's body was pressed against Ron's; he was holding his best friend like they were in one of those old Muggle roller coasters or something, but closer: Ron's back against the wall, Harry's back pressed against Ron's chest, Ron sitting astride Harry's hips, and Ron's unbroken arm curled around Harry's chest.

Harry had stopped talking, and Ron had shake him to keep him awake. "No! I don't care how tired you are, Harry! You stay awake, okay? Keep talking to me about how bloody _stupid_ you are and how you're gonna see your kid!"

Blood trickled down Ron's arm, but at least he could hear Harry mumbling again. His friend's words were strung together like Christmas ornaments; they were all important to him, but they made no sense when put together. "Ginny...teach James...to fly...want to..."

Panic stabbed him like a steel dagger. What was he talking about? "Ha-Harry? Come back to me, mate. You wanted to name the kid James, right?"

Harry's head was lolling to one side, so Ron lifted his knee to try to prop it up. "James…"

The minutes trudged through viscous rivers of blood, so slow and painful that every moment Harry was limp in Ron's arms felt like a century. He could still feel Harry's heartbeat, faint and erratic, pulsing in his friend's chest. Ron was terrified, more frightened than he'd ever been in his entire life; his entire body was on edge, the delicate pink inside of his mind screeching and whining and wailing—

And then the door slammed open again, and Ron held Harry to him like he was a baby, his arm clenching tighter than ever to protect his best friend. Not again. Merlin, how could they have found them _again_?

So Ron choked back a sob and pointed his wand at the nearest intruder.

These intruders were not Ukamilifu; in fact, they were Aurors and Healers. They had tracked Ron's corporeal Patronus all the way back to the abandoned house; Ron nearly took a Healer's arm off with his initial offensive spell, but the other others blocked it in time.

A cool, gentle hand touched his arm. "Don't worry, Mister Weasley," said the Healer, a young man who reminded him of Antonio. "You're safe now."

As they tried to pry Harry from Ron's arms, he held fast. "No!" The cry that came from him was brutal and animalistic, like a lion stripped of companionship, beaten and humiliated and cursed until he could no longer tell the difference between a gentle touch and a harsh one. "No, _please_ —"

But then the Healer tapped his wand against Ron's head, and everything seemed to wash away, one wave lapping over his mind at a time until all that was left was the tranquil, glassy surface of a reflecting pool.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! More will come._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1859]_


	6. So That Gardens May Grow Tomorrow

_A/N: Just had to do two chapters in one day. It's just too good. Enjoy._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

 _Harry._ Ron's eyes flew open. Cold, white sheets. Throbbing pain.

He scrabbled at the blankets; his right arm was useless, trapped in a cast, but with his left hand he pushed himself off of the bed. His body was a cage, a _prison_ , locking him inside to keep him from moving. He hobbled on bandaged feet (there were bandages _everywhere_ ), barely able to walk without leaning against something. It felt like he was carrying Harry all over again, ruthless pain spiking through his back and legs. He collapsed against the doorframe, coughing, bracing himself against the wall as he left the room.

 _Harry._ He pushed forward through the pain, stumbling into the corridor, mumbling to himself.

A man's hand on his shoulder brought him back to his senses. "Mister Weasley!" He grabbed the man away with what little strength he had. He had to get to _Harry_.

"Where is he?" Ron growled. Everything came into focus at once. "Where _is he_?"

The man stammered, raising his hands in surrender. "I-I don't know! Who-I don't—"

Ron shoved the man against the wall with his good arm. "Tell me where he _is_!"

Already there were several spells throwing him against the wall, restraining his arms against his sides. At the feeling of being trapped, Ron thrashed wildly, panic coursing through him. "No! No!"

"Sir," stated a middle-aged woman, "You need to calm down. Your wife will be here momentari—"

 _Harry._ "No!" Ron couldn't hear her anymore; he could only hear the _Kamilifu_ screaming at him ( _endelea kutembea, endelea kutembea, endelea kutembea_ ) and the lash landing on his back and arms, unable to protect himself, and he broke free of the spell, snarling, "What did you _do_ to him?" He launched himself at the first figure he saw, but then that familiar feeling washed over him, something like liquid sleep, slipping over his eyes until he was back in that quiet place, droplets falling into the endless perpetuity of the ripples of the serene pond…

—

"We _had_ to, Ms. Granger, I'm so sorry—"

"I don't need you to be sorry! I need to know why you felt it wasn't necessary to call me the _moment_ he arrived!"

"M-M-Ms. Granger, we were _required_ to keep the status of the survivors undisclosed to prevent a negative—"

"No! I don't want to hear your excuses! Where's your _supervisor_? I need to talk to someone who's not a total _moron_!" There was a woman at the other side of the room, speaking angrily at the lime-green robed man before her even though he was at least a foot taller than her. Her frizzy brown hair was everywhere, falling down her back, but when she saw his open eyes she stopped yelling, and the other man scampered from the room like a scolded child. "Ron?" she said, and then her body was on his, hugging him like she hadn't seen him in years. Despite her rules, she kissed him: on the cheek, on the neck, on the mouth… Her kisses were insistent, almost angry. "Don't you ever do that to me again!"

She smelled like strawberries. She smelled like _home_. "Hermione," Ron sobbed. "Hermione, Hermione…"

His mind felt peculiar, like a bloodstained carpet someone had scrubbed too hard, and his mouth tasted like Pain-Reducing Potion, sticky and sour. His body was the abandoned Muggle house, burned and scarred and left to crumble beneath the weight of the sky.

"Harry…" he remembered. "Where's Harry?"

Hermione's fingers were curled around the back of his head, stroking the nape of his neck. He wanted to fall into her touch. "He's… He's still alive, sweetheart, but he's not doing too well." Ron's heart contorted horribly. Suddenly Hermione's touch felt sickly sweet, like a Peppermint Toad he had stolen from an orphan. "He hasn't woken up since they brought you back. The Healers said we'll be lucky if he makes it a week."

All the breath seemed to leave Ron's body at once, and Hermione took her hand away, recognizing the sudden tension. " But Ginny… She…"

Hermione nodded, and that funny spot between her eyebrows crinkled in thought. "Is pregnant, I know. She's with him now. The best Healers are working on him now, I promise. Ginny and I… We made sure Harry was in the best possible hands." As he slumped backwards into the hospital bed, she moved her hands to his good one, grasping tightly. "You did everything you could, sweetheart. You kept him alive in the worst circumstances; what you did makes you a _hero_."

Ron hated that fucking word. _Hero_. A hero was someone who saved people, someone who would sacrifice their life for someone else's in a heartbeat. Ron wasn't a hero. Ron was just guilt-ridden, cowardly kid inside a man's body. The profound culpability he felt for Harry's current state was bitter and all-consuming, its ivory teeth snapping shut around his neck. "I'm no hero..." Ron's whole face fell. "I couldn't save him." The last sentence tumbled from his lips of their own accord. "I tried so _hard_ …"

Then Hermione was there again, holding him close, shushing him like a child. "You did everything in your power to save him," she reminded him. "You're the reason he's still alive. You're the reason Ginny can see him before he—" She stopped abruptly, something so unlike Hermione that Ron looked up. "Let's go see him," she said. "Come on. Then you'll understand."

—-

Hermione turned Ron's wheelchair down a corridor where a familiar woman with long, red hair stood. One hand was covering her face, while the other curled around her stomach as though to protect it. Her shoulders were shaking. "Ginny?" Ron called out.

Ginny was an absolute wreck; when she lifted her head to look at him, she revealed a face poisoned by anguish and grief. Her face was red and swollen, her eyes ringed with torment. "You—you're awake!"

He nodded, careful not to meet her eyes. Hermione had told Ron that it had been three days since they had retrieved the survivors of Kakoge from the forest of Lwamata, and they had spent a day and a half imprisoned by the _Ukamilifu_. It felt impossible, for each blistering step in Nguvu's walk of death had felt like a year of his life, but it was true. So he had lost almost five days away from Hermione and his family, in total. However, this could not be, for five days was not enough for a person to change so drastically. This woman before him was not the sister he knew so well: obstinate and vivacious and impossibly courageous. This strange woman was breaking at the seams, straining so hard to be brave that she was splintering into pieces. Her fear was bleeding through the cracks, leaving no piece of her untouched. "Is Harry…" He couldn't finish the sentence. He _couldn't_.

Ginny pointed through the massive glass window before her. "He…"

Hermione had also told him that due to the fragility of Harry's condition, he was unable to have human contact save the Healers treating him, but her statements had not stirred any consequence in his mind until she turned Ron's wheelchair to face the window, and then he truly understood what she meant.

 _Fragile_ was an understatement; instead of the shining, steel leader the Wizarding world knew and loved, Harry was a paper doll, susceptible to death by the minute graze of a spark or a splash of water. He was vulnerable in the purest sense of the word.

He was levitating above the Healing table, tilted onto his left side so that the Healers in the room could access a particularly virulent wound. Harry was the Vitruvian man, his limbs extended from him as though pulled with invisible ropes. His mouth was wide open, a translucent tube disappearing down his throat, pulsing lightly. The Ugandan blue in his veins had faded to a waxen purple, but his skin was like paper, fragile and pellucid; Ron could easily identify each individual vein like a patchwork of threads just beneath the surface of feeble membrane. His hair, usually irritatingly unkempt, was shorn closely to the skull, revealing a medley of misshapen gouges there, each one lined with a pale green colour.

There was magic pumping through his body in waves, washing over his body every few seconds in a powerful undulation of a silvery-white colour. Similar to each prisoner of the Battle of Kakoge, Harry had been struck by the lash of the _Ukamilifu._ Those four gashes in his back had been careful stitched and were partially healed, fluttering open and closed with each new surge of magic. His feet, like Ron's, were bound in white bandages.

Worst of all, however, were the wounds inflicted upon him in the first few hours of the battle, each gash filled with a sticky blue substance, brutally contorting across his stomach like the frenetic brushstrokes of a hysterical painter in his last moments before death—

— _and a violent thread of blue light struck Harry; he fell and fell and fell, scarlet blossoming across the front of his robes—_

—and panic flooded Ron's brain, alarm bells clashing and clanging inside of him. "No, no, no…" he mumbled, his left hand clenching and unclenching around the leather arm of his wheelchair. "No, no!" Harry's arms and legs were lifeless, as though floating on the surface of oblivion, and—

— _Harry's eyes closed, his knees buckling and his body falling limp against the ground, but it wasn't his time to die, he wouldn't let Harry die—_

—Ron stared blankly at the husk of his best friend, sickly and pale and terrifyingly still. The impossible weight of Harry's body, his _survival_ , his _life_ , was still in his shoulders like a ghost; its haunting presence crushed him. The pain was a vengeful phantom, its icy touch coiling around his spine—

— _for Harry's body was hot against his shoulders, the weight of his friend's life growing heavier with every step; painful tremors tore down his back and ripped through his muscles—_

—so Ron slammed his fist against the glass, trying to shatter the image before him. "Ron!" Hermione was standing in front of him now, just like—

— _Harry stood before him, holding Ron's stolen wand; the bandages wrapped around his naked torso were wet now, sticky with blood. The red seeped all the way through his bandages, spreading across his entire front like poppy flowers blooming over a blanket of fresh—_

"No!" The sobs that wracked him were not enough to express the immeasurable guilt battling his insides. "Fuck, Ginny, I'm so _sorry_ …" It was his fault Ginny would lose Harry within a week. It was his fault Ginny's son would never know his father. It was his fault Hermione had to watch Harry wither away. It was all his fault.

Ron buried his head in his hands as though he could hide the merciless wildfire of shame and chagrin that burned inside of him.

And even as Hermione touched him, kneeling by him and whispering her assurance that there was nothing more he could have done to save Harry, Ron continued to grieve, for he knew the truth.

Harry's death was _his_ fault.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! We'll go deeper into Ron's recovery._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1868]_


	7. For I Am Number Five Hundred And Seven

_A/N: Ron learns about his injuries and about what really happened in Kakoge. Warning for survivor's guilt, PTSD, violence._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

The Healers told him that he had demolished the muscles of his shoulders and caused some spinal injuries that could take months to recover from. "The spine is not like the other parts of the body," explained his Healer, a small black woman in lime-green robes. Her name was Holly Davis, and she spoke kindly to him despite knowing of everything he had done. "The unique connection of the nerves there cannot be fixed like a bone can." She conjured a glowing image of a human body, waving her wand so that it expanded to view the figure's back. The spine glowed in white while the muscles were outlined in yellow. "This is an average twenty to twenty-five year old male with your height and weight." Striking her wand against the image, it flipped and morphed into another man, slightly hunched; the spine was split by a needle of red or pink in several places, and the muscles were a deeper, violent shade of fiery orange. "This is you. Due to your other injuries, your body is already suffering immensely, and these back problems, caused by multiple herniated disks and torn muscles..."

Ron wasn't listening anymore. He'd stopped listening a long time ago, for how could he care about his own well-being when Harry was dying on the other side of the hospital?

Ron… Ron was barely worth a Sickle, let alone a life. It didn't make sense that he should live and Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the abandoned orphan who had pulled himself up from nothing into _something_ , the savior of the European Wizarding world, the _father-to-be_ … It didn't make sense that Harry was bloodless and unconscious in _that fucking room_ while Ron stood alive and well with Hermione, listening to this stupid Healer babble on about he would never be able to use his right arm again and how it would have to be removed.

 _Wait_. Although Ron had already sunk into the bowels of his brain, his guilt ensnaring the flesh of his legs and dragging him down to the ocean floor, Hermione's voice clasped him by the throat and wrenched him back into the vulnerability of reality.

"Removed?" Ron, constrained to the real world once more, turned his aching neck to look at his wife. Her voice was strained. "Are you—are you mad? This is his wand arm!"

"I know, Ms. Granger," stated the Healer. "You must understand that Ugandan dark magic is something so precarious, so _treacherous_ , that once it enters the body it is almost impossible to remove. The magical community of Uganda, you see, is incredibly peaceful, so most of their magic is mundane, unable to be used combative forms. Therefore, any magic that is developed for a belligerent use, like to maim or murder, is dark and catastrophic. It is a permanent curse once it is this far inside of the body, Ms. Granger."

"Isn't there a cure?" Hermione pressed on. "A spell or potion that could remove it from the flesh, perhaps transfer it to—"

The woman only shook her head. "I'm afraid not." She reached for Ron's arm, the one that had been crushed ( _and all_ _Ron_ _could hear was the grinding of his broken bones; surely the pain would engulf him and swallow him whole_ ). With pink-white bands of healing magic encircling it like ribbons, it was fully confined in a thick cast, not an inch of bruised flesh to be seen. "Currently, this is the only solution we have to rid a human body of Ugandan dark magic. I know it may seem brutish, Ms. Granger, but it is the only way. Unless you want it to spread, then the amputation must occur." To Ron, his arm was numbed by the magic, so it was nothing but a useless, dangling slab of meat up to the shoulder, and its absence was so bizarre that he tried to flex his fingers in vain. "You're quite lucky, Mr. Weasley," she assured him, pushing her glasses up her nose with her knuckles. The gesture itself, of adjusting glasses like that, was so vividly _Harry_ that Ron reeled for a moment, his mind whirring like a Muggle machine. "Many victims of Ugandan dark magic do not survive. Once the magic reaches the core of a person, it always—"

"Thank you," Hermione interrupted, her face suddenly hard. "That will be enough."

Healer Davis continued to speak about Ron's many injuries, of which he had more than he could count. Torn tendons, lacerations, burns, bone fractures… Some of the more physical injuries were solved with simple healing spells and potions, but the more magical ones resisted any magical fix and had to heal slowly, the Muggle way, with stitches and chemicals.

After Healer Davis left, first reminding them that the surgery was scheduled for that evening, Hermione took his left hand in hers and swore she would love him no matter what.

Ron knew that Hermione loved him more than anything, but after what he had done, he knew he couldn't love himself.

The magical infections caused by Ron's injuries could be easily cut away, sliced off like the unwanted peel of an apple. But Harry was suffering… Harry couldn't escape his fate. How was that fair?

"I want to see my parents," he told Hermione, his voice shaking. "And my brothers."

Hermione gnawed on her lip. "You can't, sweetheart. They only allowed one emergency contact per survivor, Ron, and I was the first on your list."

Ron's heart twisted. "Do Mum and Dad… Does everyone know I'm okay?"

She nodded furiously. "Of course, sweetheart, I told them everything. They're just not allowed to come here to see you, that's all."

An odd feeling of injustice, of anger and frustration, swam through his mind. "Why not?"

He could feel him behind her, tapping her fingers nervously against the handles of the wheelchair. "There were a lot of people who died fighting in Uganda, sweetheart. They haven't released the news to the public yet. They're afraid it will cause a...a negative reaction in the rest of the Wizarding community. If all of the families of all of the victims visited St. Mungo's, it'd be a disaster." She sighed. "They're supposed to release all of the information in two days. Until then, I'm the only one who can visit you."

Ron felt as though he was five years old again, tugging at his mum's skirt. "I want Mum," he whispered. His words were weak, sobs threatening to spill over. "Hermione, please…"

Hermione was in front of him now, blocking his view of Harry. "I'm sorry, Ron. I really am."

—

The Aurors came next, unblemished and trigger-happy morons in purple robes, followed by a bald Healer in green ones and a reporter in a pale blue suit. "We want to talk to Mr. Weasley," said the first, an impossibly small woman with fierce, gold eyes. "My name is Auror Georgina Thompson, and this is my partner, Auror Gianna Russo. We're interviewing everyone who returned from Uganda."

Hermione was wary, as was the Healer next to her. "Interrogating, you mean?" she suggested coldly. "Why?"

"To make sure we have the whole story, Ms. Granger," stated the second, an olive-skinned woman with pitch-black curls. "We have to understand everything that occurred between Kakoge and the forest of Lwamata so that we can be better prepared for any future activity from Nguvu and her followers."

"The _Ukamilifu_ ," murmured Ron.

The small woman, most likely half-elf, jerked her head at the other man, clearly the superior of the group. "Write that down," she ordered to the reporter.

Before they could move any closer, Hermione intervened, placing herself between the Aurors and Ron. "You're not talking to my husband today," she declared. "He's not ready for that. "

Wholeheartedly grateful to her, Ron relaxed, the tension in his shoulders ebbing. Perhaps he wouldn't have to talk about—

"You don't seem to understand, Ms. Granger," said the third, the Healer with green eyes. "I'm Healer Livera, the one in charge of Mr. Potter's case. I need Mr. Weasley's testimony of the events in Uganda in order to fully treat Mr. Potter."

Time seemed to subside in that moment; of course, he would do anything to help Harry stay alive, but this was his nightmare, his skeleton in the closet. Not only would Hermione and Ginny know the extent of his failure, but the world would know as well.

Hermione's obstinance slackened, and she sat at the end of the bed, gripping the rail with white knuckles. "Will it help him?"

He couldn't read the Healer's expression; he saw no desperation, yet no despair either. Only fatigue. "I hope so," he said.

Hermione was still hesitant to leave him. "But—"

"It's fine, Hermione," Ron told her. His eyelids were heavy with Pain-Reducing Potion. "I have to do this."

Although his wife was astonished by the resignation in his tone, still she left, led away by the dark-haired Auror. Honestly, Ron felt like a piece of prey with the world as his predator; after hours and hours of being chased and maimed and pulled apart at the edges, he wanted nothing more than to collapse and give in into the world's razor sharp claws, just so it would be over. He sat up on the hospital bed, struggling to do so with only one working arm and numbness spiraling down his spine. Dread trickled down his neck.

They gave him the Veritaserum first, in something that looked like a shot glass, and it tasted like regret. And then they sat around him in their cold, hard chairs with their cold, hard smiles to begin the interrogation.

Ron flexed the fingers in his good hand, watching the burn on his palm wrinkle with the motion. He had a matching one in the other hand, but he couldn't feel it. He'd taken that pain for Harry, using that stolen wand countless times, but now it was meaningless. "Mr. Weasley?" It was the reporter, dressed in pale blue and false concern. "My name's Liam Perkins. I work for the _Daily Prophet_. I'll be recording your answers. May I begin with the questions?"

It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter, so he mumbled, "Sure."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "Describe the battle, if you would, starting when you arrived at Kakoge."

Pain slithered up Ron's back, icy and slick. The words spilled from his mouth— _blood spilling from_ _Harry_ ' _s mouth_ , _his teeth red_ —and then took flight as Ron hid in the back of his mind, going deeper and deeper until he couldn't hear the reporter anymore.

He spouted descriptions of blood, war, and death in a calm monotone, so detached from the situation that his words held no meaning. He explained how he and Harry had escaped from the Ukamilifu by running deep into the forest and seeking refuge in an abandoned Muggle house. He told them about three Ukamilifu who had discovered their hiding place and tried to kill them.

"And how did you know they would have killed Mr. Potter?" asked Perkins. "Would they have let you carry him along the path if you hadn't fought back?

"They cut off the right foot of everyone they killed," he heard himself say. "Anyone who couldn't keep walking anymore or tried to fight back. They killed them all."

"Can you name the people that Nguvu killed?"

Ron stared at him.

Liam Perkins glanced away, unnerved by Ron's empty gaze. "Not all of the bodies could be identified, Mr. Weasley. Some were maimed so beyond recognition that it's impossible to know who they were before. We're asking all of the survivors to recall anyone they can who died during the slaughter of Kakoge."

 _The slaughter of Kakoge_. That's what they were calling it now; it wasn't a battle anymore. No. Too many people had died. Too many men, women, and children had their lungs ripped from their bodies and their feet sawed off. Too many bloodstained beds and burned buildings. Too many arms smashed to a bloody pulp. Too many people, dead and living, with empty gazes. Too many people drenched in trauma and blood, unable to ever scrub it clean. "Mucamatara Oliveira," he said. He'd heard Antonio saying her full name when doing last rites over her corpse. "Catherine and Elliott Robinson." The names erupted from a place he'd shoved down so far inside of himself that he'd forgotten it existed. He named friends, enemies, colleagues, people he'd met once and never spoken to again… Now they were all dead, and their relationship to Ron didn't matter. "I don't know every name," he confessed. His tongue was liquid truth; he wanted to wash it clean. Saying the names of the dead out loud felt like swallowing thick chunks of tar. "A Makoutoro witch and a Beauxbatons wizard."

Perkins rifled through his briefcase and pulled out two albums of photographs. "Do you think you could recognize them from these photos?"

Both albums were black leather, filled to the brim with pictures. Ron took the first one into his lap, opening to the first page. He almost dropped it then and there. A tidal wave of nauseating dread overtook all other senses. The first photo was of a man Ron vaguely recognized, stripped naked on what Ron knew was the path to the forest of Lwamata. His bottom half had been torn from the top of his body, pink organs spilling from his middle, and it lay a few feet away from his torso. His right foot was missing, and his face was contorted in a permanent expression of terror. Beside the photo, he had been identified as a fifty-one year old Auror named Oliver Ricks.

Ron didn't want to look. He couldn't look. He couldn't. But the Veritaserum forced him to answer the question he'd been given: _Do you think you could recognize them from these photos?_ And the answer was… "Yes."

Perkins cleared his throat again. "The first album is of all human remains that the search-and-rescue teams located between Kakoge and the forest of Lwamata. The second one contains the most recent picture of every known witch or wizard who accompanied Mr. Potter and yourself to Kakoge. The photos were given by the families, so we know that they are accurate. We just need to connect as many as we can to the photos in the first album. Anyone already identified by their family and someone else has an X beside their name. We'd like you to help us figure out some of the blank spaces, Mr. Weasley, so we can give some of these grieving Wizarding families some closure. There are so many people missing and so many unidentifiable remains that we can't know for sure who has died and who is still escaping Nguvu." Perkins patted the second album. "But you do."

Ron's voice came out as a weak croak. "Can—can't you ask someone else?"

Perkins glanced helplessly at the two Aurors behind him. Auror Gianna Russo stood at the doorway with her arms folded, while the other, Auror Georgina Thompson, paced back and forth along the wall opposite Ron. As soon as she met Perkins' worried gaze, she halted, turning to face Ron. "Mr. Weasley," she said, her face hard, "have you received contact from any other survivors of the...of what happened in Kakoge?"

He couldn't lie. "No," he responded. "I thought… I thought they…"

"Do you know how many returned from Uganda alive, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron didn't like where this question was heading. The cast on his right arm suddenly felt like a chain, locked around his wrist to prevent him from ever getting free again. "No," he whispered.

"Twelve," said Auror Thompson simply. "There were twelve survivors."

Ron was Atlas, straining to carry the world on his back. With Thompson's words, something inside him tore, shredding against the sharp edges of the sky, and he collapsed, the world crushing him piece by piece. As Ron slumped, the universe shattered beneath him, fragments of ocean and land scattering around him. The delicate balance of the world (water and earth, life and death, good and bad) was broken, and nothing could be done to fix it.

Thompson was still talking. "Five of them succumbed to their wounds sometime after arriving here. The Healers tried to save them, of course, but it simply could not be done. Ugandan dark magic is different, as you know, and we were unequipped to deal with their extensive injuries. There are seven of you left now: you, Harry Potter, Ms. Catarina Soares, Mr. Reo Murakami, Ms. Aadvika Khatri, Ms. Daiena Tasarla, and Mr. Antonio de la Paz."

Ron could barely think, let alone process what Auror Thompson had said, but he did understand one word: _Antonio_.

A fleeting flutter of hope rose inside of him. Antonio was alive.

The rest of his chest sunk into a horrible, dark corner. Five hundred and five corpses, empty and cold. Five hundred and five holes carved into the wombs of five hundred and five mothers. Five hundred and five headstones before five hundred and five fresh piles of dirt.

Five hundred and _six_ , once Harry...

Ron's head flared wildly with pain, so he ground his palm into his eye sockets as though to grind his grief to dust.

Five hundred and five people's blood in the earth of Uganda. Not to mention the countless civilians who had been slaughtered before Ron's eyes.

"Seven," he whispered, his voice an unrecognizable croak.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me! I appreciate the reviews so, so much._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [2923]_

 _Your Favorite House - #40 (wash), Gryffindor_


	8. I Am Air Born Without Ground Control

_A/N: Warning for more survivor's guilt, PTSD, flashbacks, and mentions of gore._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

Ron did everything he could to help the Auror Thompson and her team identify bodies and describe the events in Uganda. But all the while, his head was far away, drifting between a swamp of fear and a castle of disillusionment. He lived in that good place where Harry was still animated and healthy, Hermione was brilliant and perfect, Ginny was pregnant and happy, and Ron wasn't one of the seven survivors of the slaughter of Kakoge. But the knowledge that it had happened was always at the back of his mind like a parasite, sucking away at his vitality.

After the interrogation was over, Healer Davis returned his room, flanked by three operating Healers, dressed in their normal green robes and heavy, white aprons draped over them. Hermione was close behind, twisting her wedding ring around her finger anxiously. "It's time for your operation," stated his Healer. "Are you ready, Mr. Weasley?"

Still affected by the Veritaserum, Ron mumbled, "No." It suddenly dawned on him that he was about to lose his wand arm. _His wand arm_. This was something he would never be able to bounce back from; they would carve away a part of him he cherished more than anything else.

Healer Holly Davis smiled sadly at him. "Well, there's no need to worry, Mr. Weasley. My orthopedic surgeons are the best in all of Europe. You're in good hands."

One of the orthopedic Healers handed him a potion. "Drink," he said, so he did.

The potion made Ron feel weightless; he was a paper bag in a cyclone, whipped from one side to the other and threatening to tear to pieces. "What…" he slurred, falling back against the pillows.

The Healer explained, "It's a numbing potion, Mr. Weasley. It should cover everything up to your neck. Can you feel this?"

They poked and prodded and poked more until finally they seemed satisfied. "Now, this operation is...unusual, to say the least," stated Healer Davis. "We can't put you to sleep for the duration of the amputation."

He had to be awake? Ron tried to get up, tried to raise his head, just to tell her: _no, I don't want to do this_ , but all that came out was a weak "no."

She didn't seem to hear him. "Due to the malevolence of the dark magic you endured, we cannot monitor your pain levels during the procedure. Therefore, you will be lucid for the entire procedure, simply so you can give us a warning if the Numbing Potion begins to wear off or if something feels wrong." She patted his shoulder, but he couldn't feel a thing. "If you make a sound, any sound at all, we'll stop immediately, okay, Mr. Weasley?"

He told them "okay," but it was anything but okay.

The Healers, draped in protective masks and other medical gear, rolled him into one of the Healing Rooms. One of the Healers waved his wand, levitating Ron off of the bed and onto the table beside him. Another conjured white straps that extended all the way down the platform.

 _Straps_. Panicked, Ron wheezed, "N...No!" The straps coiled around his chest, squeezing firmly, but he couldn't move any part of his body to free himself.

"Mr. Weasley," said Healer Davis, a white mask muffling her voice, "it's alright. The restraints are only there to make sure your body remains still during the operation. You're perfectly safe." Someone conjured a sheet to obscure the view of his right arm, levitating it so that he could not see anything.

His body was asleep; _wake up, wake up, wake up!_

Healer Davis asked him, "Are you ready to begin, Mr. Weasley?"

The Veritaserum had long since worn off, but now he wished it was still coursing through his veins so that he would have the courage to say "no" again. Instead, he lifted his eyes to meet Holly Davis' and said, "Yes…"

This operation was the only way he could stop the dark infection spreading through him and save his life, but did he want to? Currently, he didn't feel a particularly strong pull in either direction; he was in purgatory, floating between life and death.

He was one of seven who had survived the slaughter of Kakoge. Seven of the five hundred and twelve witches and wizards who had travelled to Uganda to fight Nguvu in the first place. That was five hundred and five people who Ron couldn't save. Well, five hundred and six counting Harry, who was due to die within the week. There was one thought, oppressive and heavy like a thick fog, pressing against his temple: he didn't deserve to be alive. Out of all five hundred and twelve people, why him? He couldn't save the civilians. He couldn't save Uagadou. He couldn't save Muca or Dembe or Catherine or Ismat or anyone. Most of all, he couldn't save Harry, his best friend in the world.

What use was he to the world? Why did he get to live while all of these wonderful people had to die?

Ron knew he should be dead. It should be him on that horrible white table in that horrible white room, not Harry. Harry should be throwing himself into Ginny's arms and coming up with odd baby names, not unconscious and fading fast.

Something pressed against his arm, large and heavy. He tipped his head to the side, trying to see what it was, but the curtain blocked him. The Healers were speaking to each other, their voices cloudy and unintelligible through the sheet between them. It was suddenly hot, like a tea kettle that had just started to boil, but it was too hot and painful and _shit,_ it was creeping up his arm like a thousand fire ants in a frenzied battle—

"Stop…" Ron rasped, and the pain subsided, leveling to a manageable state, but it still crowded in his arm, the ants leaving burning footprints in their wake.

A face peered at him over the curtain. "What's your pain level at, Mr. Weasley?"

"Four," he hissed.

Then one of them pressed a cold vial against his mouth. "Drink," he said; it was the same gravelly voice as before.

The pain washed away again, cleansed by another round of Numbing Potion, but the face was still there. "Better now? What's your number now?"

"Two…" His tongue was a dead snake in his mouth.

"Good."

Squinting at her, Ron spotted flecks of red at the edge of her mask. Red that wasn't there before. Blood. _His_ blood _._ _Like the blood spotting the ground next to_ _Muca_ ' _s head, her eyes blank and unseeing,_ _Antonio_ _wailing,_ " _No, no no—"_

"Pulse is rising!"

Gloved fingers on his neck. "Mr. Weasley, sir, I need you to calm down, okay? Just breathe. Breathe, please."

— _but had they only removed one lung, not two, just so he would suffer longer, so_ _Elliot_ _scrabbled at his chest and neck, trying to suck in a breath, but he only vomited blood all over himself;_ _Catherine_ _was screaming, twisting and fighting against the Ukamilifu, but still_ _Elliot_ _could not breathe, and by the time it was over he had gouge marks in his neck out of desperation for air, horrible red lines—_

"Calm down, sir! We need you to be—"

— _he was inside the hut, holding_ _Harry_ _close, yet still he could hear her screams outside of the hut, crying, "Don't, no,_ please—"

" _Shit!_ Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Ron, _stop!_ "

Pain spread over his skull like a drop of ink in water, swirling through his brain until it became one massive, churning whirlpool, threatening to swallow everything.

* * *

All he could see was Uganda, falling headfirst from one memory to the next, seeing _Antonio clutching the woman to his chest, grasping her lifeless limbs, sobbing, "Muca, no, no, please—"_

 _—a man's voice, a wail like a siren, crying, "Please, please, I have children, spare me, I don't want to die—" before vermillion magic seized him by the neck, thrust into his chest cavity, and pulled free a bloody pink mass—_

 _—Nguvu, dressed in midnight purple robes with her hands bound in black metal rings, grabbing an unconscious Harry by the back of his robes and lifting him into the air with a green levitation spell; she stretched his limbs apart, letting red drip down his front, and laughed, screeching, "This is your leader? Pathetic—"_

 _—and each civilian in the city was dragged before them, arms locked behind them; there was a child at the very end of the line, the ink of Ugandan magic smeared across his face, and Nguvu screamed, "These are the imperfect, the scum of the earth, who we must purify!" and all the while the child was sobbing, crying, wailing for his mother, but Nguvu lit her hands up that horrible red colour and then the crying abruptly stopped—_

—and Ron thrashed, roaring, "No, no, _no!_ " The sheets were tangled around his body, but that feeling of being restricted, as though he was back on the path to Lwamata— _both arms locked behind him, the whip cutting into the meat of his back_ —crushed him; he fell out of the bed while trying to free himself.

Fear pulsed through him like hot blood, and panic writhed over him like a million spiders scampering over his skin. In that moment, he realized he was not alone; his senses hit him all at once, like a whole wall of bricks: the female voice on the other side of the room, the pain setting fire to his arm, the darkness enveloping him, the stench of blood and urine, the sweat running down his neck, the bitter aftertaste on his tongue, the ache between his shoulder blades, and the tremor of his knees. He felt only unadulterated terror in every breath—where was his wand, _where the hell was his wand—_

"Ron, please…"

Ron's panicked mind stopped. _Hermione,_ he thought, and he crawled out of the storm shelter of his mind. He was on the floor beside his hospital bed, soaked in sweat, and Hermione was on the other side of the room, pinned against the wall by an invisible force, alarm splashed across her face.

As soon as the dread tangled tightly around his heart released, making way for anguish and guilt, he watched Hermione drop to the floor, coughing, on her hands and knees.

Ron was horrified. He had done that. He had done the one thing he swore he would never do: he had hurt Hermione. He looked down at his hands, at his _fucking guilty hands_ , but he found one hand instead of two. Only one hand. His right arm was gone, all the way up to his shoulder, leaving only a bandaged nub in its place. He let out a strangled whimper. The fear was still there, swelling inside of his chest like an insidious bubble, and that feeling of overwhelming panic spiked, his mind reeling and rushing back into that dark place—

There were other people in the room by then, rushing around the bed, and Ron felt their violation of his space like it was part of his body. "No!" he snarled, just as invasive magic flooded him and forced his body to freeze in a complete Body Bind.

Fear was an understatement; Ron drowned in his apprehension, tormented by the vulnerability of his position. He battled the curse, but it was incredibly powerful, immobilizing every part of his body.

"Mr. Weasley, you need to calm down. It's only me, your Healer. Healer Davis, remember?" The voice was familiar, low and soothing, but Ron was still in his head, his eyes wide in anticipation. "You're at St. Mungo's, and you're safe. You're not in Uganda anymore. You're safe. We got you out. You're okay."

It took him a long time to calm himself after that, but once he did, they finally released the curse and allowed him to move again. Ron's left hand drifted to the empty space where his arm used to be, touching it gingerly. It felt wrong, in every sense of the word, and bile rose in his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright, Mr. Weasley," his Healer assured him. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

Ron swallowed.

* * *

 _A/N: Let me know what you think! More coming soon._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [2043]_


	9. I Am The Maelstrom

_A/N: Warning for survivor's guilt, severe PTSD, flashbacks, and gore. There's a lot of medical/magical explanations in this chapter, so if you guys get confused about it, just PM me._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

The Healers performed countless tests on him after he was lucid and calm again, taking blood and skin and hair and energy until finally they seemed satisfied. "It looks like the operation was a success," said Davis. "There's no more malevolent magic in your system."

Ron didn't care about this 'malevolent magic' they kept mentioning. He cared about his wife. "Can I see Hermione now?" he asked.

Healer Davis turned to face him. "We think it would be better if you two had some space, Mr. Weasley."

Ron's guilt cut into him, hot and sharp. "I didn't mean to, I swear." He could still see her before him, her brown eyes swimming in confusion and alarm. "I just…"

"We know you didn't mean to harm her, Mr. Weasley. We just feel that...until you can regain control, it might be better if—"

"Please," he begged. "I swear it won't happen again."

Eventually, they permitted a supervised visit, in which Healer Davis and a Healer-in-training sat with Hermione, Ginny, and Ron to explain the extent of his condition. "We all know that children often have trouble controlling their magic," began Healer Davis, clasping her hands together. "They let their emotions rule their magical prowess, which leads to potentially harmful situations for themselves and others. Anger and fear are the largest triggers of dangerous emotional outbursts. As such, when witches and wizards endure extensive trauma, specifically especially something that may have required a magical outburst to protect oneself (as in Ron's case), they develop what we call Post-Traumatic Reversion Syndrome, typically found in veterans of magical battles, for the control over one's magic reverts back to something like a child's." She displayed a floating image of the brain, zooming in on a glowing yellow portion of the gray image. "When Ron had his outburst in Kakoge, he hyperactivated the amygdala, the part of the brain that controls emotion, because it was necessary in order for him to survive. It's a useful tactic that the brain uses to escape from a harmful situation, but it becomes dangerous once one has left the realm of danger.

"When you're an adult, having already set 'controls,' so to speak, for your magic, having an emotional outburst like this is damaging to several parts of your brain. It...breaks the system already put in place. It leads to similar 'hyperactivation' of the hippocampus, ventromedial prefrontal cortex, and amygdala. Respectively, they control memory, decisions, and emotion. As a result, after that first instance, the brain is on a constant lookout for similar emotional experiences that may cause more harm. Because PTRS affects the hippocampus, it focuses extensively on the memories associated with this period of emotional trauma, remembering each one in excruciating detail." The woman tapped the side of her head. "It's an extreme form of fear conditioning, in which the brain recognizes a particular stimulus as a potential cause for harm and emits aversive fear chemicals into the brain. After having an outburst such as this, the brain 'fear conditions' most stimuli from the traumatic event, resulting in heavy trauma-related psychological damage following the event itself that one might see in one who has endured years of abuse as a child instead of a couple days as an adult." Healer Davis took a deep breath. "Trauma, as you know, often leads to negative psychological effects after the event itself, in both Muggles and wizards. This is commonly known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—"

"I know what it is," snapped Hermione.

Healer Davis adjusted her glasses and gave her a sympathetic look. "PTSD often forces the patient to relive these memories repetitively. These memories, specifically for Ron, bring on the emotions of fear and anger that fueled the original outburst, and then another outburst takes place as a result." There were several parts of the brain image glowing now. "It's a cruel circle, really. The triggers caused by PTSD lead to flashbacks, the flashbacks lead to elevated emotions, and the emotions lead to PTRS, and PTRS leads to magical outbursts. These magical outbursts further the attempts of the brain to locate the source of the neurological distress. Then the PTSD increases, causing more hallucinations, night terrors, and triggers, and starting the circle all over again. Do you understand?"

Hermione and Ginny nodded grimly.

"Well, that's what happened with you, Ms. Granger, when Ron woke up this morning. I'm guessing he experienced a flashback or something like it, and then the fear carried over into his awakened state, leading to the magical outburst that you witnessed." She motioned to him, although Ron merely looked away, ashamed. "He didn't attack you, Ms. Granger. He was reliving the events of his trauma and trying to protect himself. It's a neurological reaction that he can't control at the moment. He had a similar reaction during the operation on his arm, using his magic on some of the Healers in the room, which was why we had to use more...forceful means to sedate him."

That explained the roaring headache. Ron had fully returned to reality now, and he recognized what had happened. They must have used the Stunning Spell on him during his operation because he had one of those 'outbursts.' He was an Auror, after all, and he was quite familiar with the physical effects of the spell.

"Is there any treatment?" asked Hermione. "Any way we can fix it?"

"There is a potion that helps to prevent magical outbursts like this," she explained, "but it contains some substances that conflict with Mr. Weasley's current mode of treatment. We can't give it to him as of right now, but we'll keep you updated. Generally, if PTRS goes untreated, it leaves the patient with symptoms similar to the overuse of the Cruciatus Curse. They lose their sense of time, living mostly in the time of their trauma, and are mostly unable to process events in real time."

"What else are we supposed to do?" Ginny inquired. "We can't just sit back and watch him suffer like this!"

Healer Davis folded her hands across her lap. "At the moment, it's the only thing we can do. Therapy generally helps with those who suffer from PTRS, and drawing away from potential triggers generally slows its progression. We're bringing a psychological Healer here tomorrow who will assist in a full diagnosis and provide more options for treatment, but for now, we just have to wait."

But they did not wait. Ron had another outburst by midday, so they promised to bring the psychologist to Ron by two o'clock. In the meantime, Hermione took Ron back to see Harry again. "His condition hasn't changed much," she told him, as the Healers hurried in frantic circles around Harry. "He's still hanging on. That's a good sign, Ron."

But Ron had known Hermione for far too long; the damp resignation in her voice was still there, sticking to her throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything._

Ron lost himself in his mind, tripping through the menacing maze of panic and pain; he didn't hear Hermione when she said, "Sweetheart, there's nothing for you to be sorry for."

* * *

The psychologist visited at precisely two o'clock to run tests and officially diagnose him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in addition to Post-Traumatic Reversion Syndrome. After the diagnosis, Hermione kissed his cheek and told him she'd be back in the morning. After all, the victims' emergency contacts were only allowed to stay during typical work hours to lower suspicion. Afterward, Ron lay on his back, trying to find the most painless position. It was an impossible feat, for everything hurt. His back, his feet, his arms ( _arm_ , he corrected himself), his head, his chest…

He didn't want to sleep. Fearing flashbacks akin to the ones that had caused him to harm Hermione, he forced himself to stay awake. He didn't want to have another 'outburst.' He wasn't a _fucking kid!_ He felt helpless, bound by his wrists and ankles to serve his puppet master: fear. But although he kept his eyes open wide, he eventually succumbed to exhaustion, losing his grip on reality and tumbling headfirst into that dark void—

 _—and it was Ewan Campbell staggering in warped circles, blood dribbling down his chin. Ron knew him. Ron loved him. Ewan was one of Ron's Auror trainees, a boy just out of Hogwarts with a fresh sense of justice and naivety. He was eighteen years old, and he couldn't let anything by without making a comment about injustice or equality. Ewan had been the first to join Ron's cause to fight Nguvu, eager to do his part and fight for what he believed in._

 _And now this boy, white as a bleached sheet, was mumbling to himself, against the wall of a Ugandan home, staring blankly at the scarlet squirting from his stump of an arm. "My…" He took a step forward, then one back, and then leaned forward to watch something in the ground._

 _It was an arm. Ewan's arm. There was a strange, dumbfound bewilderment carved into his pale face, like a child who had just been told there was no Santa Claus. He picked up his lacerated arm, stumbling forward, odd croaking sounds escaping him. Ron ran to him, "Ewan, duck!" and blocked a malicious curse with both his body and his wand, rebounding it towards Ewan's attacker. When he scrambled back up to his feet, Ewan was crumpled against the wall, still clutching the arm that had been severed from his body. His eyes were terrifyingly wide, unblinking, and when Ron approached him he held out the arm for him to take it, like it was a wand instead of his own limb. There was one horrible, painful second after Ron kneeled before him, waving his wand over the shell-shocked boy, in which Ewan fell forward and slumped against him._

 _"Hey, hey," said Ron, trying to prop him up with his bloody arms—why was he so limp, why was he so cold—and hold his face in his hands."Ewan, hey, you're fine, you're okay—"_

 _The seventeen-year-old lifted one shaking, clammy arm and touched Ron's face, three fingertips brushing against his forehead. He sputtered, trying to communicate, but only spat more blood. Where the hell was all this blood coming from? He clutched Ewan to him, holding him around the waist in an eternal embrace, and frantically felt around Ewan's torso for a wound._

 _And he found it: the scarlet demon of death carved into Evan's back, swirl upon swirl of Ugandan magic on his flesh. Ron had seen this mark earlier today, overtaking the faces of the dead. "No—fuck! No, Ewan, come on, stay with me—"_

 _Ewan was a puppet with his strings cut. Slack. Lifeless. Gone. The buzz of Ewan's life faded beneath Ron's fingertips, giving way to the gruesome halt of Ewan's chest. The severed arm dropped to the ground, but his eyes were still locked on Ron's. There were no words that could sufficiently describe the viscous horror of Ewan Campbell's dead (dead, dead, Ewan is dead, dead) gaze, the life of a boy fading from his cheeks—_

—yet Ron could feel the markings in Ewan's flesh as though they were his own, tattooed into his muscles, and suddenly he couldn't breathe, as though his lungs had already been gruesomely ripped from his chest—

A man in the doorway, standing quietly.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut ( _EwanEwanEwan he was your fucking responsibility_ ), for all he can see was Ewan's appallingly pallid face at the door with his appallingly pallid stare ( _fuckfuckfuck he was too fucking pale_ ).

"Don't worry," said the man. Dressed in pale yellow robes, he uncrossed his arms. "I'm not going to enter the room until you give me permission to do so."

Ron was too busy trying to cling to reality to pay much attention to the mysterious man; he couldn't breathe, grief and panic zinging like Firebolts through his brain. "Don't come any closer," he managed, his voice hoarse and dangerous. He could see a clear outline of the man now, casually leaning against the doorframe. "I'll kill you, I swear I'll kill you!"

To show he had no weapon, the man raised his hands— _raising his hands, the Kamilifu shouting in Swahili before razing the house, tearing it apart like it was made of paper_ —so Ron jerked away, the hair on his arms standing up straight.

"Ron," said the man. "I will not enter the room. I have no wand. I am not here to hurt you."

His skin screamed at the presence of the unknown man, but Ron forced himself to swallow it down. "Who are you?"

The man explained that he was a psychiatrist who worked with St. Mungo's. He was a tall, Sri Lankan man with kind eyes and a mess of dark hair. "My name is Asiri Sansuka, Mr. Weasley." He smiled. "I'm here to help you." He was not much older than Ron himself (perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six), but he moved with the fluency of a wise man, one who had realized that kindness was the only path he could walk on. "Would you like something to eat? Anything to drink?"

"No," replied Ron. His Healers had been giving him Nourishment Potions to keep him sustained, for they didn't want to cause his body any unnecessary harm while it was in such a fragile state. "Why are you here, Mr. Sansuka?" His words were blunt and exhausted, even though his body was prickling with dread.

"Call me Asiri," said the psychiatrist. "I'm here to help you, Ron. I told you that."

"I don't need help," he snapped. "Harry needs help." He was sick and tired of people doting on him and acting like he was a child with a cold. The churning shame inside of him could not be fixed.

"Unfortunately," declared Asiri, "I'm not a Healer. So I can't do anything for your friend. But I can help you."

"I don't need your help!" Ron's voice ended in a strangled squeak; he could feel something like anger boiling at his fingertips.

Asiri only shrugged, nonchalant. "That's fine. Then… Do you want to take a little field trip?"

His words were oddly calm, as though they were merely two young men chatting in a pub instead of a killer and a psychiatrist sitting in the isolated ward of St. Mungo's. "Er...What?"

Asiri shrugged again, his smile climbing up one cheek. "Do you want to take a field trip? I've heard there's some people who want to see you."

Automatically, dread flooded Ron's nervous system, sending his heart into a chattering frenzy. "Who—who wants to see me?" His shoulders ached, whining pitifully.

"The survivors," said Asiri.

* * *

 _A/N: How'd you like it? What do you think about Ron's new condition? Leave a review, tell me what you think!_

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [2448]_


	10. I Won't Save The World Today

_A/N: Warning for flashbacks, survivor's_ _guilt._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

Ron could walk now, but his body was still so worn that he didn't have enough strength to keep himself upright for more than a few minutes. So Asiri Sansuka pushed him in a wheelchair, Ron brushing his fingers over the spot where his arm should have been.

He rolled into a room at the end of the hallway; inside, there was a smattering of chairs, couches, and people. There were five survivors, as promised, dressed in St. Mungo's white patient clothing and tremendous sorrow; in addition, five psychiatrists in pale yellow, remained close by their patients.

The first one he saw was an olive-skinned girl, younger than Ron, with long, dark curls and a horrible, blank stare. She was in a wheelchair, too, as both of her legs had been amputated above the knee. She was eerily unresponsive, not moving or speaking, even as the woman beside her tried to coax her into talking. The next survivor was a woman of Arabic descent, with deep brown eyes and a hostile demeanor, pacing back and forth in front of the wall, warily glancing at the new arrivals and curling her one arm around her torso. The third was a Japanese Metamorphagus, a man with shining silver eyes and snowy white hair. Not even his strangely colored eyes could disguise the insomnia and distress racking him. Ron had only ever seen a Metamorphagus with hair that color when dying or frightened, but even then it was typically grey, as though they'd forgotten how to live. The fourth was a woman with massive golden brown hair, her skin and eyes almost the same shade. She was curled up in a ball on the couch in the position Ron had been in only minutes beforehand. Finally, there was Antonio in the corner, shivering like a wet dog and nodding as a female therapist spoke to him. There were these jagged, pink scars running over every bit of his skin: across his face, down his neck, over his arms; Ron didn't want to know where they were from. Antonio's dark eyes fell on Ron; he actively startled before rushing towards him. "Ron!" he cried.

The combination of the boy's shout and sudden movement made Ron automatically prepare himself for pain— _hearing the angry cry,_ _Ron_ _flung his body over_ _Harry_ ' _s, bracing himself, and the whip sliced through the stringy tendons between his shoulder and his neck—_ and he flinched so badly that he stumbled backwards into Asiri. Antonio shrunk back, guilty, and then hugged him anyway, the grip around his torso feeling more like a restraint than a comfort. The absence of his right arm, in conjunction with that foreboding sense of dread between his ribs, made the embrace feel abysmally _wrong_ , in every sense of the word.

After Antonio finally released him, Ron's body relaxed, his shoulders slumping. "They told me about Harry," whispered the Ilvermorny boy. "I didn't… Is he gonna be okay?"

Ron wanted to freeze time, if just for a moment, so he could calm himself down enough to smoothly answer the question. "I… I…" He could feel his throat closing already.

Luckily, Asiri Sansuka stepped forward, taking over for him. "Mr. Potter is partially stable right now, Antonio. We're not sure how long he has."

Even Antonio knew what that meant. The boy whimpered out loud, clapping a hand over his mouth. _Harry Potter was going to die_. This man, this _hero_ , who had twice looked beneath Death's dark hood and declared, _I will not go gently into that good night._ Ron had seen this struggle tear his best friend apart for years; Harry's entire childhood had been a battle against Lord Voldemort. Each year, it seemed, he fought Death and won, but each time he came apart at the seams, torn to pieces. After every encounter, Ron and Hermione had to put him back together again. This time, Ron knew, it was Ron who had ripped him apart, and there was no putting him back together again. This was Harry's denouement. His finale. His—

"Ron?" Ron nearly jumped out of his own skin, his flesh buzzing with panic. It was only Asiri, standing before him with concern stretched tight across his cheeks. "Come on," said Asiri, gathering the attention of the room. Ron shuffled his feet; he was Alice in Wonderland, growing and growing until he was pinned at all sides, the walls suffocating and unrelenting. "Let's sit down."

The therapists, together, pushed the chairs together into a crude circle, where each survivor could sit next to their yellow-clothed psychiatrist. They began with introductions, each person telling their name, age, and country of origin. Each person was given a small grey device to hold that translated their spoken words for the rest of the room. After all, none of them came from the same country, so communication was difficult without translations. The first woman didn't speak, still completely absent from the room around her, so her therapist, a large, blonde woman, spoke for her. "This is Daiena Tasarla. She's from Russia, but she did not attend Koldovstoretz, the school of magic there. She is one of the Ruska Roma, a travelling community in Russia, and they generally homeschool their children. She… She is nineteen years old."

The next few went by quickly: an aggressive woman from Kanpur, India, named Aadvika Khatri. She spoke both English and Hindi, but when she spoke at the yellow-clothed woman beside her, it was in English. "I want it back," she snapped, and Ron frowned. "You want me to sit in this room and talk about my fucking feelings? Bullshit! I want it back! You have to give it back! You _have_ to!"

Eventually, she stormed out of the room, and her therapist followed her. "Aadvika!"

Ron didn't know what Aadvika wanted, but still their absence felt like a bad omen; two more empty chairs in the circle could only mean something precarious.

The next, the Japanese Metamorphagus, spoke quietly, as if afraid to shake the room with his voice. " _My name is Reo Murakami. I'm twenty-seven years old. I went to Mahoutokoro, the magic school in Japan. I have…"_ A small, nostalgic smile danced across his face. " _I have two children. Their names are Raphael and Kana, and I love them more than anything_." Although his emotions seemed warm and genuine, his hair did not change colour, remaining that cold, terrible white. His face was still decorated with leftover pain he was unable to disguise.

The girl a couple of chairs away from Ron was speaking now, her voice shaky and meek. " _My name is Catarina Soares_ ," she said in Portuguese, her fingers gripping both edges of the seat like she was holding a wand. " _My school is Castelobruxo."_ She was missing a leg, Ron noticed. Her left one. And there were bandages obscuring the left side of her face, covering her eye and creeping down to her mouth. " _I am twenty-three."_

Finally, Antonio introduced himself, stammering so much that his teeth clacked together. He was the youngest of the group, only seventeen years old, and it certainly showed. While Reo and Ron showed the beginnings of scruffy beards from a lack of shaving, Antonio only had wisps around his chin. He was small for his size, at least ten inches smaller than Ron himself, and his eyes were large and vulnerable like a child's.

The therapists introduced themselves, too, but Ron had already tuned out by the time they began. He had tripped and fallen into the abyss of his thoughts, tumbling endlessly. He remembered all of the people in the room to a degree, some more than others. In particular, he remembered Daiena, the young Romani girl, because he had learned that day of the unusual Romani connection to magic.

 _They were evacuating the civilians, ushering people out using Portkeys and other magical devices, and_ _Daiena_ _appeared at his side, her hair tied back in a colourful scarf of magenta and indigo. That same combination of colour was displayed on the back of an_ _animal_ _beside her: a_ _creature_ _that looked like a_ _brightly coloured lynx_ _, but had a long, feathered tail of intense pinks and blues. Its eyes were a startling pink, matching the eyes of its_ _companion_ _, the_ _Romani girl_ _._ _Daiena_ _knelt on the ground, her eyes flashing brighter as she spoke to the_ _creature_ _in Romani. The_ _lynx_ _darted through her legs once before leaping to the outer ring of the city and guiding a confused man back towards a Portkey._ _Daiena_ _stood up again, glancing at_ _Ron_ _. She wore a black corset and a dress that matched the scarf in her hair, swirling with the most intense colors of a sunset. The skirt was so long and heavy that_ _Ron_ _briefly wondered how she could possibly fight in something so inhibiting to her movement._

 _Daiena_ _had a glow about her, like a child who still believed in the Tooth Fairy. There was a warmth to her cheeks and a light in her eyes that could only mean she had never lived through something as treacherous as a Wizarding War. In the back of his mind,_ _Ron_ _hoped she retained that glow. As they worked to move all of the civilians out of Kakoge, he kept staring at the_ _creature_ _by her side. He had never seen anything like it before; every movement it made was so radiant, so captivating, that_ _Ron_ _couldn't help but stare._ " _Don't stare too long,"_ _said the_ _Romani girl_ _, chuckling. There were metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles, gleaming like molten gold, and she touched one to the side of her throat as she spoke, turning her words from Romani to English._ " _Or you'll keep staring forever."_ _As they guided each civilian to their rightful place, she explained the purpose of the_ _creature_ _._ " _The Ruska Roma,"_ _she told him,_ " _fuel their magic through familiars like my Mikhail. We bond with them when we are young and spend every moment with them afterward."_

 _It was an odd replacement for a wand,_ _Ron_ _thought, but it was clear that the_ _creature_ _did have immense power._

 _Once the Ukamilifu finally came, with their black iron gazes and violet fury,_ _Daiena_ _and_ _Mikhail_ _were a whirlwind of magic, a starburst of pigments spilled on canvas. The opponents around them seemed to fall faster than they could approach her. As she danced, magic spiraling from the cuffs and rippling around her feet with every stomp to the ground. Her magic was an art, not a profession, and it was utterly dazzling._ _Mikhail_ _, the_ _vivacious lynx_ _, mimicked her movements, the two so intertwined with magic that at some points they seemed to be one twirling cyclone of power—_

—and the absence of that beautiful lynx, Mikhail, at her side, now made Daiena seem colorless and bland in comparison. The shining cuffs were gone, replaced by two amputated legs and two skinny, fragile wrists. Dressed in a white shirt and pants (and a white, barren stare), she looked like someone had carved out her lustrous soul and replaced it with a lump of wet concrete. The luminous spirit Ron had recognized only days beforehand was gone.

Around the room, Ron could recognize that same emptiness: shallow breaths, vacant stares, small movements, violent flinches, and hesitant words. There was a swollen bubble around every survivor, each one swirling a kaleidoscopic, oily black. Ron hated that word, too. _Survivor_. It tasted victorious on his tongue, but Ron's heart was anything but victorious. He had lost _everything_. His best friend, his mind, his magic, his innocence… He couldn't sleep without seeing ever-widening bloodstains on the back of each eyelid.

The therapists, respectively, tried to coax them into speaking, but it was too soon. The slaughter (that was what they called it now, right?) was still fresh in his mind, the stench of blood still ripe on his fingers. What was talking going to do, anyway? It didn't change the fact that Harry was clinging with blistering fingers to life, ready to fall away into oblivion. It didn't change the fact that five hundred and five people were gone. It didn't change anything at all.

Ron lifted his face to the ceiling and wished himself into another world.

* * *

 _A/N: Have a happy new year, everyone! Thanks for all of your support, reviews, and everything! I really appreciate all of you._

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [2046]_


	11. I Am Just Trying To Survive

_A/N: Warning for violence, gore, PTSD, a little profanity, a subtle reference to self-harm._

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

 _The world was bloody chaos, savage brutality crowned queen of all the earth. Blood clung to his toes like molasses, and broken fingers grazed his ankles. He tripped on something, hard, and fell with an ugly splash into the thick, scarlet pool. He spun around, his body half-submerged in blood, and found the offending object._

 _It was an arm. A pale, freckled arm._

 _He screamed, his lungs exploding in pain, and when he looked down, the blood pooling at his feet was pouring from his chest as well; there was a mess of pink and red where his lungs used to be—_

—pressure, four light fingers, on his wrist. Automatically, he opened his eyes and swung his hand up, magic and panic flurrying through his muscles. His hard, unyielding fist met soft, pliant flesh, and a strangled cry echoed in his ears. "Ron!"

The sound of his name only augmented the emotions boiling beneath his skin, and his white-knuckled grip on reality unraveled—

— _like the flesh peeling off of the corpse beside him;_ _Muca_ _was long gone, but_ _Antonio_ _was still cradling her, trying to get her to wake up—_

"Wake _up_!" Hands on him. On his face, his arms. Fingers like hot irons on his skin.

He summoned all the strength he had, magic exploding in his head and spreading over his neck, shoulders, arms, legs—

— _the curse was climbing across his face, that awful color of dried blood, clawing its way across his skin, and the wizard fisted his hand into_ _Ron_ ' _s robes: "Please," he begged, scarlet already leaking from his mouth, "please, please, I don't wanna die—" But_ _Ron_ _knew if he stopped, he'd be dead, too, so he pried the man's fingers away and kept on walking—_

"Shit!" Heat pressing against him from all sides. "Calm down, Ron! _Ron_! Calm the fuck down!"

— _and in the split second before she died, she made eye contact with_ _Ron_ _, her voice a young, terrified whimper—_

Pain, explosive and hot, spurting from all corners of his brain. Then, all at once, paralysis looping around his arms and fastening them to his sides.

Thick whorls of fear constricted around his lungs, pulling taut.

— _she traveled amongst the weak and the dying like the Grim Reaper, marking the dead with a black circle in the center of their foreheads, the dying with a red one, and the survivors with a purple one;_ _Nguvu_ _left no man, woman, or child unmarred—_

—and there was a cacophony of voices, ringing and clanging and clashing until they all became one.

"Hold him down! Hold him _down_!"

"How the _hell_ is he doing this?"

"Ron, _stop!"_

But the pleas of his family were—

— _the pleas to live from the Ugandan civilians, and he could not stop reach them in time before a Kamilifu raised her scarlet hands and doused the earth with blood—_

—Ron screamed, unable to hold in the energy surging through his head—

—

"He's awake now, Mrs. Weasley."

Shuffle, shuffle. "Can he hear me?" He knew that voice better than anything. _Mum_. He wanted to call out to her, to reach toward her, to embrace her, to sob into the crook of her neck… But he couldn't _move._

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley."

Magic had him locked in a reclined position, whirling in his ears. He couldn't move, couldn't even breathe of his own volition, and it _terrified_ him. His arms were restrained at his sides by both magical and Muggle means, and his legs were bound together. He couldn't even move his mouth; air came through his nostrils and filled his lungs, expanding without his permission, _without his permission_ — His body betrayed him, obeying the spell's every command. His eyes were closed, and he couldn't make his eyelids open. For a brief second, he thought this was what death could be like: an eternity of life trapped in an unresponsive body.

"Can I… Can I touch him?"

Eerie, cold silence. "I wouldn't advise that, Mrs. Weasley. Although he can't physically harm anyone in this state, touch has caused relapse in the past, so it might cause some...negative...mental..."

A wet sniffle. "Alright, then." A voice close to his ear, warm like apple cider. "Ron, dear, it's Mum. I—" A strangled stop. "They released the...information today about everything that happened, and I—I'm sorry you had to go through that. What happened to those poor, poor people, I…" She was weeping now, crying softly. "I'm just so—so happy you're safe, Ron. They told me about your condition, too, and I just want you to know that I love you, Ron, and I'm going to stay here with you, okay?" The barbed wire clenched tightly around his lungs seemed to loosen a little. Although he was still a prisoner in his own body, somehow the presence of his mum made everything better. "I won't leave you, dear. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Ron was the prodigal son; he had left home in a whirlwind of selfish heroism and ignorant gullibility, unable to see humanity's true nature. Now that he had returned, Molly Weasley had opened her arms to him and rejoiced. To Ron, her love was tainted by the knowledge that he would return to her a murderer, a taker of five hundred and five (five hundred and _six_ ) human lives. He couldn't ever remove that blood on his hands.

"Mrs. Weasley," said the voice in the corner, interrupting Ron's minefield of thoughts. "Either you tell him, or I'll do it for you."

A shaky breath. "Alright, alright, I'll do it. But can you leave us, please?"

"Of course, Mrs. Weasley. But we will still monitor from outside, just to be safe."

 _Either you tell him, or I'll do it for you._ That barbed wire was back, winding around his torso and cutting into his organs. He knew what was coming now; it loomed like an ominous thundercloud around his head.

 _Harry is dead. Dear, Harry's gone. Harry passed away last night._ The options were endless, and the anticipation of _those_ _fucking words_ felt like acid burning holes in his throat.

"Ron, dear…" His mum's well-worn fingers clasped onto his. "You've been in a magically induced coma for three days." The fingers traced the scars lining his right arm, and Ron nearly gagged at the sensation. "I don't know what you remember, but when your brothers, your father, and I came to visit you, you had a...an attack, I suppose. That's what they called it. And your magic, dear, it went out of control. You conjured a pretty dangerous curse, and you…" She explained the potency of the curse, something called _Protego Diabolica_. It was a spell that conjured violent flames to protect the user, specifically harming those who the user perceived to be a threat. "To someone with your...condition," said Mum, "it's really...dangerous, dear." Because he perceived everything as a threat, she explained, the curse had exploded and expanded, attacking every person in its vicinity as a potential danger to its host. "Your father...he isn't doing too well, dear. After Fre—after we lost your brother, you know his health's gotten worse, and the fire hit him the hardest…"

Ron wanted to scream, to punch through a wall, to curl up in a ball, to set his skin on fire, to rake over the skin of his face until there was nothing left but strips of shredded pink and red.

First Harry, then Hermione, and now _this_? He couldn't even last a day without hurting someone he cared about. He hadn't meant to— _fuck_ , he hadn't meant to hurt anyone! If only he'd had more control over himself in his shitty, bloody mess of a brain… _Fuck!_

Mum was still talking, stammering over her words. "But—But everyone's fine, just your dad couldn't get his shield up in time, and Harry's still hanging on…"

Guilt boiled in the pit of his stomach. "...and they had to put you in the coma, dear, because there were a lot of people...hurt by what happened, and they were afraid it would happen again if they kept you awake. That's why you still can't move, Ron. And I—" She sighed. "Bloody _hell_."

He heard a chair screech away from the bed, followed by sharp footsteps and a slammed door. He could barely hear his mum's voice through the door, but he could hear the furious tone from his bed. When the door finally opened again, his mother was still arguing. "—my son! You have to let him talk, at the very least! I can't tell if he's dead or alive like this!"

"Mrs. Weasley, you have to understand, the nature of his condition is quite fragile at the moment. Subjecting him to any stimulants could set him off again."

"I don't _care!_ I need my son to talk to me, so lift the bloody spell! He won't hurt me!"

An ugly, almost vicious silence. "Mrs. Weasley… He already did."

The barbed wire was impossibly tight now, squeezing all air from him as he bled guilt into every inch of his body. The world halted around him, a clashing of hazy voices ripping and tearing and screaming relentlessly; the barbed wire encircled his body from head to toe, clamping over his skin. Disgusted bile bubbled in his throat. He was so _fucked up_ inside, he couldn't— He'd hurt Hermione, his dad, Harry, and now his mum… It was too much; his flesh writhed at the thought, his muscles twisting and contorting like maggots beneath his skin, yet still he _could not move_.

"Pulse rising, everyone back up, please!"

Then, a sharp pinch at the back of his brain made something in the pit of his stomach loosen and spill free, drenching his insides, so it pulled him, tainted and so fucked up, into the bowels of oblivion.

* * *

 _Challenges used:_

 _Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1643]_


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